


Nazar

by sergeant_angel



Series: Evil Eyes and Daring Dodos [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Young Avengers
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, Gen, Mentions of canon character death, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, have you accepted kate bishop as your lord and savior, kate bishop awareness 2k15, sad trash dumpster lawyer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:10:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 72,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is probably a universal law written somewhere about Hawkeyes exerting a gravitational pull towards trouble; or, Matt Murdock eventually acquires a Hawkeye, and this is how it happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Hawkeye According to Kate Bishop

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled "The Path to Heaven Runs Through Miles of Clouded Hell" but that's a really freaking long title.  
> Takes place during the entire first season of Daredevil, and at some nebulous point after the events of Hawkeye and Young Avengers. Hopefully the narrative provides enough context, but if anyone needs clarification, let me know and I'll put up my timeline.  
> As a general clarification, though, for the purposes of this fic, the YA were active before the Battle of NY as well as during, though they were not called the Young Avengers until after the fact.  
> Unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine. Feel free to point out anything glaring!  
> Not Age of Ultron compliant.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate strikes out on her own, hoping this time will have 100% less LMDs and Weed Lords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're rereading, you may note a SHINY NEW COVER courtesy of the incomparable [awkwardnormalcy](http://awkwardnormalcy.tumblr.com/)  
> LOOOK. AT IT.  
> Also, I may have mentioned that I am NOT computer or internet savvy, so I don't know the protocol for these sorts of things. Should it be at the start of every chapter? Should it actually be up here? Feel free to tell me, yo.  
> Also, feel free to come holla at me on the tumblahs, sergeant-angels-trashcan.  
> Okay. Carry on.

" alt="Cover" />

Kate’s been an official resident of Hell’s Kitchen for…twelve hours? And already her sources are telling her that there’s weird shit going down.

Vigilante weird.

Okay, so her sources are her neighbor ladies, Mrs. Orlov—downstairs--and Mrs. Liu--across the hall. She’s not a magician, she hasn’t even unpacked yet and she can’t really talk. She will _gladly_ take information from whoever’s willing to give it to her right now, particularly when it literally lands on her doorstep. Never let it be said that Hawkeyes can't take hints from the universe.

This is what she knows:

Ana Orlov--Mrs. O’s daughter-- was saved from being stuffed into a shipping container and sold to who the hell knows earlier tonight. She’d gone to the cops and, as Kate makes the three women chamomile tea, tells them about a man who’d beaten the shit out of the guys who grabbed her and a few other women.

"He was fast,” Ana says, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen anything like it, not in person. On TV, maybe. He dodged bullets. He—he broke a man’s leg with his hands, that's not--not normal, is it?" she goes a bit green at that. “He rescued us, but he was—he was scary. He yelled at us,” she looks ready to cry.

Kate sympathizes with Ana, she does, but she also knows that sometimes you can’t be nice to people when you’re trying to get them out of danger, so she’s not going to condemn the man for that alone.

“He was dressed all in black,” Ana continues. “He wore a mask, only it covered his eyes. Doesn’t that seem odd? That he would cover his eyes?” She swallows hard, blinking back tears. "Do you think they'll try and find me again?"

Kate puts her hands over Ana’s shaky grip, curling the other woman’s hands more tightly around the warm mug. “You’re safe here. I doubt they’ll try to find you, but even if they do, they’re not going to get you. I promise.”

The three women look at her like she’s just said she’s thinking about hanging Cap’s shield in place of the moon. It’s a look she associates with the phrase _so is skinny white girl an Avenger now?_ \--not a rousing vote of confidence, but she can work with it.

“Lock your doors, make sure your windows are locked. I’ll see if I can get someone to install new locks for everyone.” She pauses, massages her jaw. “Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She strings her bow as the women stare.

“Are you…” Mrs. Liu pauses, like she’s trying to find the word. “Avenger?”

“Sometimes,” Kate shrugs. “It depends on who you ask. Go home. Sleep.”

She ushers her neighbors out of her apartment, waits until she hears the scrape of Mrs. Liu’s deadbolt, before escorting the Orlovs to their apartment, once again reminding them to lock everything.

At least it’s a nice enough night for sitting on your stoop and guarding your building against human traffickers and masked madmen--there's a gentle breeze buffeting crumpled-up newspapers across the street, the moon is almost full, and the street is almost quiet.

As she settles in for a night of off-brand Avengering, Kate shoots her currently second-favorite and occasionally favorite Avenger a text.

**KB:** hey can you come help me soon I bought an apartment building and it needs a security overhaul

**Tasha:** once upon a time I thought you were the reasonable hawkeye

**Tasha:** silly me

**Tasha:** unless you need to be there I can do a rough plan tomorrow morning and have it to you tomorrow night I have some free time.

**KB:** whenever. I’m gonna go chase some leads when the suns up. Just chillin on my stoop

**Tasha:** plz don’t tell me why

**Tasha:** see you tom. Will bring coffee.

**KB:** my hero :)

**Tasha:** stow it nerd

**Tasha:** ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nazar is the Turkish word for the evil eye.


	2. How to Adult by Kate Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This being an adult thing isn't nearly as hard as everyone makes it out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-beta'ed. You guys know the drill.

Kate’s circled the building forty-seven times by the time the sky goes from black to blue-grey, the sun not even up yet. Her knees ache from sitting on cold concrete for hours, but at least she’s not tired—not yet, anyway, still running on adrenaline. She's been turning the idea of the man in the mask over in her head off-and-on for hours at this point, almost run the battery down on her phone to see if there's any news about him. There isn't any actual news, though SuperHeroSpotter.com has three mentions of a guy in Hell's Kitchen. Of course, SuperHeroSpotter.com also calls her Lady Hawkgirl on the rare occasion that they _do_ mention her, which, no. There's also several mentions of a flaming skeleton in LA--aww, Robbie, _no_ \--so that's something she's going to have to handle sooner rather than later.

Lack of online buzz means she's going to have to try legitimate sources for information--which is fine, she hasn't had an excuse to hang out at a police station in a few weeks.

She’s also started a list of major blind spots and security lapses she's noticed on and around her building, places she wants to have nice big locks or small sinister locks, whatever Natasha tells her to buy. Or, rather, whatever Natasha buys and charges to Stark and gives to Kate.

Kate gets a great deal of satisfaction about the fact that Tony Stark doesn’t know that the Black Widow has several of his credit cards--Tasha pickpockets Stark when she gets bored--but Pepper Potts does, and doesn’t really care, as long as crazy things like yachts don’t get charged. Kate's pretty sure Clint's entire apartment is furnished because of Natasha's free hand with Stark's money.

The Avengers are _weird._

“On your six, Little Bird,” Natasha calls from the mouth of the alley Kate is pacing.

“Hey, Tash,” Kate backtracks to pull her into a one-armed hug, made difficult by Natasha’s drink carrier and Kate’s bow.

“Coffee,” Natasha says, handing her a cup, then a brown paper bag. “Sustenance. Now go. Do your thing, as long as that thing isn’t getting a concussion. I’ve got this.”

Kate’s thing _isn’t_ getting a concussion, at least not today. It’s going down to bother the friendly neighborhood 5-0s, so she just shakes her head at Tasha and hands her the list of security oversights, humming as she takes off down the street.

The station is dingy--desks piled with papers and battered manila file folders, the sour smells of burnt coffee and sweat thick in the air, dimly lit with kind of lighting that sucks your soul out through your eyeballs. Entering the building _dings_ something in Kate, something that makes her uneasy in a way that hearkens back to eerie mayfly-universes, that subtle creeping feeling on the back of your neck that signifies that even though things look right, they aren’t. She doesn't know _why,_ she just _knows_.

But part of what makes a Hawkeye a Hawkeye is the ability to look at a situation, to take stock of your gut instinct, and say “Fuck that shit, this needs to be done.”

Which is how she winds up plastering on what she hopes is a winning smile and not an “I was up literally all night making sure human traffickers didn’t invade my building” hysterical sort of smile as she strides up to the man behind the counter--or is it technically a desk?--she should probably know this by now.

The Sergeant—Mahoney, according to his uniform—glares at her, but then she sees the glare drop down to a paper bag in his fist, so maybe it isn’t her he’s mad at. Well, it _shouldn't_ be, she just got here. Give a gal five minutes to piss off the fuzz, at least. Kate smiles wider.

“Can I help you?”

Well, at least he’s _sort_ of trying to be polite. She’ll give him points for that.

“Hi,” Kate says, sliding her notebook towards him so he can read her prewritten introduction of **_My name is Kate. My jaw is wired shut and talking is tedious and slow and writing is faster, sometimes. Sorry for the inconvenience!_**

“Kate,” he sighs. “How can I help you?”

She’d written this one down last night by the light of the street lamp. _**My neighbor was attacked last night. She’s fine, she went to the police, but she’s very scared, and I’m trying to help put her mind at ease**._

“Where was this at?”

_**The docks. She said a man in a black mask saved her and the other women**._

Sergeant Mahoney pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I’d heard.”

Kate doesn’t even bother looking for her pen, just snags the one next to the Sergeant’s hand.

**_Not the 1st time?_ **

“He’s been causing trouble on and off. Well. That’s the word on the street. Man in a mask beating on guys all over Hell’s Kitchen—it’s probably nothing to be worried about, miss. Just gang members making a bogeyman to scare other gangs.”

**_Any reports about this bogeyman I could read?_ **

Sergeant Mahoney levels her with a glare that suddenly makes her feel like she’s back in LA—a crotchety cop glare Detective Caudle had given her on more than one occasion--a glare that will almost certainly be followed up by pointed questions about her profession and polished off with an exhortation to get out and stay out.

**_Well thx sarge! Have a nice day!_ **

She scribbles, ripping the last part out of the notebook and sliding it to him before making a hasty exit, because if there’s one thing she’s learned, it’s that you never overstay your welcome in a police station. Anyway, she’s got other stuff to do today and finding herself in police custody would really cramp her style.

Kate munches on a Tasha-supplied bagel--well, she sort of sucks cream cheese off a Tasha-supplied bagel--as she meanders down to the waterfront, checking out the security. There are a few cameras that look promising enough to hack, though she'll probably have David walk her through it the first time she does it. Of course, given the scarcity of cameras and the general unwillingness for criminals to commit crimes on tape, it might be easier for her to low-tech this. That's not a bad idea anyway, just start patrolling right off the bat. Does he patrol? He's got to be a local, the masked man--and he needs a different name, for sure--but why the docks? Was it simply more convenient? Why start there? Although that question rests pretty heavily on the assumption that he's only recently become active. So if he has been active for a while, why hasn't anyone heard of him? Was this an act of heroism, or is he a hired gun, out to undermine a rival crime ring? That fits into the lack of information, too.

Of course, it's possible that's his play as a good guy, anonymity--it's hard for the bad guys to warn against you if they don't know who you are, or if you really exist. Maybe the detective hadn't been far off--a bogeyman. Maybe that's where the mask comes in? Ana had been very clear on the mask and the fact that she couldn't see his eyes--so, either he's an idiot, has access to high-tech fabric, is trying to psych his enemies out, or--this is what Kate would put money on--there's something distinctive about his eyes. It could be as simple as having heterochromia, or as complex as a mutation that affects his eyes, or something like America has, and his eyes glow when he gets all bad-assy. Not that any of those options are mutually exclusive.

Kate ponders all this as she wanders Hell's Kitchen, sees two drug deals go down and five instances of Non-Specific Very Suspicious Behavior, before her meander takes her to the building she's meeting a realtor at. It's a respectable looking place, pale brick sandwiched between a bodega and a bar, and within spitting distance of some very impressive cranes and--hey, that building looks a lot like the one she and Teddy crash-landed in during the Battle of NY.

It takes Kate a second to realize that it _is_ the same building, and in the meantime, the woman has introduced herself as Susan, and gone on to drag Kate up to the second floor of the building, extoling the many virtues of the location and the frankly mediocre price.

The thing about having a broken jaw is it makes it hard to interrupt people, but a lot easier to negotiate.

She gets fifty bucks knocked off her rent just because she writes it down and keeps underlining it, and another one-fifty when Susan lets slip that lawyers are moving in across the hall.

 _I’m a PI._ Kate writes in big, grumpy letters. _My client base is generally not put at ease by lawyers._

“Okay,” Susan is nonplussed. “Well, I have another property you might—“

Kate shakes her head, takes a deep breath before spinning her words slowly. “Who else is looking at this place? Being across the hall from lawyers might be even less of a selling point for the other prospects.”

Susan pales a little, which Kate refuses to feel guilty for. It's hardly her fault that bail bondsman, private investigators, insurance agents, and lawyers all have similar starting budgets, nor is it her fault that she's a good guesser.

“This is an amazing opportunity,” Susan tries again, and really, Kate admires her tenacity. “In eighteen months you won’t be able to rent a broom closet at this price.”

“Well, if this office sits vacant for eighteen months, it’s no skin off my neck,” Kate shrugs. “Two hundred less for eighteen months.”

Susan regards her through narrowed eyes. “I think we can do that.”

Kate grins.

An hour later, AB Investigations has a street address.

Her business cards are coming in a week

 **KB** : I’m the coolest person u know

 **HAWKEYE:** i know

 **KB:** Im a landlord and I have an office for my pi stuff holla

 **HAWKEYE:** i don’t holla

 **HAWKEYE:** where the hell did you get money to do this did u blackmail ur dad

 **HAWKEYE:** sell ur soul?

 **KB:** u so holla

 **KB:** also rude

 **KB:** circus money bro

 **KB:** my hazard pay from getting my jaw smashed

 **KB:** consulting fees

 **KB:** also i have a day job

 **KB:** when u look at it like that bad guys paid for all of this

 **KB:** also actual blood sweat and tears

 **HAWKEYE:** i told u not to spend it all in 1 place

 **KB:** i didn’t

 **HAWKEYE:** i was counting hell’s kitchen as 1 place

 **KB:** well thats silly

 **KB:** 2 places like a boss

 **KB:** hey u should support small business by buying me dinner

 **HAWKEYE:** ur broke now arent u

 **HAWKEYE:** congrats hawkeye :)

 **KB:** thanks hawkeye :)

 **HAWKEYE:** BIG BIRD IS PROUD OF U!!!

 **HAWKEYE:** wait

 **HAWKEYE:** noooooo

 **KB:** AHAHAHAHA BIG BIRD

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not intend for both of these chapters to end with texting conversations.  
> Kate is absolutely talking about Robbie Reyes, if you're wondering. I have pretty strong feelings about Kate being called in by the Senior Avengers to go and talk to new talent, so to speak, particularly if that person is young. I feel like she (and her team) have a certain amount of legitimacy with teen superheroes, and that they would be strong advocates for training and equipping these teens, not just telling them to stop. She and Steve butt heads a lot on this matter.
> 
> Also, I fully believe that Clint would accidentally refer to himself as "Big Bird" intending that to make Kate "Little/Baby Bird" without fully realizing that Big Bird is a thing. Oh, Clint. You human trashpile, I love you.
> 
> A/N: Corrected Mahoney's rank to Sergeant, thanks kerys!
> 
> Speaking of human trashpiles, don't worry, we're going to hear from our favorite sad trash dumpster lawyer in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	3. Matt Murdock: Occasionally Practical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the only person who doesn't think Matt needs better body armor is Matt, and Claire discovers she has an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still un-beta'ed. The flow might seem a little off in this chapter, for which I apologize. Blind Catholic Ninja is hard to write.
> 
> Takes place between episodes one and three.

There’s someone else at the docks the next time Matt dons the mask and interrupts the Russians shoving young women into a shipping container.

The heartbeat is slow and steady—almost _too_ slow, not the panicked beats of the girls or the heavy, adrenaline-loaded glugs of the muscle, or the calm, stoned rhythm of the man supervising everything.

It’s almost like a heart during meditation, maybe sleep, except that the owner of the heart is perched on top of a stack of shipping containers. He’s wasted precious seconds cataloguing the wind blowing through the heartbeat’s hair and past a taut string that is _somehow_ familiar until he hears three quick _fwip-thwack_ s ahead of him, and he leaps into action.

With the help of the archer (of course it’s an archer, how could he have not realized that right away?), he manages to knock the guys out and deliver some choice threats with a lot fewer injuries to himself than he had been expecting, which he appreciates.

He tells (maybe yells at) the girls to head to the cops and offers his conscripted sniper a nod; he can’t tell if it’s returned or not, and the only way he knows he’s alone is the steady heartbeat getting quieter as the owner moves away—quickly, and fairly quietly, barely a sound of feet on metal as the archer follows the young women to the street.

The whole thing is probably pretty weird, but in the grand scheme of his life—well, maybe a silent archer helping you take down a human trafficking ring down at the docks isn’t so strange.

What _is_ strange is that Matt is used to fighting alone, so when he has the utterly novel thought _I wish that archer had been there_ just before he loses consciousness in a dumpster, it sticks with him. Because Matt Murdock is occasionally a practical creature, and he doesn’t like working alone more than he _dis_ likes having his ass handed to him.

He manages to remember all of this when wakes up in a stranger's apartment. He remembers it when he asks Claire for help.

(and after, when he's home, trying to lie still to minimize the pain, maybe he thinks about falling and wings and protection and healing hands; maybe, just before he dozes off, he thinks about angels.

Could be the blood loss.

Could be the Catholicism.

Sometimes it's hard to tell.)

.

The next time he encounters Hawkeye—it’s an archer in New York, it’s _got_ to be Hawkeye, right?—he’s a little distracted by the gash he got the _last_ time he clashed with the Russians reopening in his side to try and profile the archer. He chooses instead to be grateful when one of his opponents takes an arrow in the neck and another takes an arrow in the hand (a hand that was strangling him; right now he’s not going to dwell on the fact that a tiny miscalculation would have ended with him dying of an arrow in the throat).

Arrows fly past him, near him, but never catching him, until there’s a full minute where the only sound is the noise his fists make when they smack against flesh. He hears feet impacting the gravel, then feet impacting a person, crunching over to him (smaller than he’d anticipated), hears the distinctive _thunk_ of something tubular and metal hitting flesh (batons of some sort), and then the loudest sounds are their panting breaths in the cool air.

“Thanks, Hawkeye,” he grits out before he can think that maybe he’s got the wrong hero, and he can  _hear_ lips curving into a smile, the way it alters her breathing. She steps closer, right up into his space (shorter than he is by several inches, wind blowing through long hair, somehow managed to miss that this is a woman the first time they met and he's not sure _how_ he missed that-- he thought Hawkeye was a man?) but she doesn't correct him, doesn’t say anything, just presses her fingers against his sliced side, taps them gently against his bruised cheek, the question clear.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I know a guy.”

She hums at him, the questioning noise coming from the back of her throat. She steps back, tilting her head to the side like she's giving him some sort of once-over inspection that he must fail, because a sigh huffs from her lungs as she slots herself under his uninjured side, draping his arm over her shoulders and tugging him so she can take some of his weight. Her arm curls across his back, her free hand supporting his chest as she hauls them away from the water.

He _doesn’t_ need help, but it seems like it would be rude to shove her away, so he lets her. Pretending to let her help him gives Matt the opportunity to realize that a cut in his leg has reopened, so he actually does let her take some of his weight. Not because he can't do it on his own, he just doesn't want to make Claire's job harder. For what it's worth, Hawkeye (he's got nothing else to call her, so he's sticking with it) seems unfazed by half-carrying him.

He tells her when they’re good, far enough away from the docks to avoid the cops that are potentially headed their way, but not so far that they're going to encounter everyday citizens. Matt pulls out his phone to call Claire, but stops when he hears the woman extract something from her—boots? They must be tall boots—the click of a pen, the unmistakable sound of someone scratching out a note.

 _Scribble-scribble-scribble-riiip_ and she’s shoving a small piece of paper into his hand before she clangs up a fire escape and across the rooftops. He listens to her heartbeat (slow, steady, calm) crossing the city until Claire reaches him.

“Well,” she says when she arrives. “At least this time you’re just next to the dumpster, and not in it.”

.                

 When Matt is patched up—after twenty-five stitches and a story about an archer trolling Hell’s Kitchen with him ( _Hawkeye from on High_ she jokes when he mentions her perching on shipping containers)--he hands Claire the note.

“She left me this,” he passes it to her. “Mind telling me what it says?”

Claire sighs at him before she opens the already worn paper, and then—strangely--starts to laugh.

“Oh, man,” she says. “I want to meet her, whoever she is.”

“What does it say?” Matt shifts in agitation (or pain, not that he’ll admit to either).

“It says, ‘Masked Dude: Thank you for your help’ and then there’s some ellipses and a few question marks. ‘I hope you don’t mind me helping out except I don’t really care because human trafficking is everyone’s business’ which is an excellent point, by the way. Anyway. She goes on ‘I hope your friend actually exists and can actually help you and you don’t die next to a dumpster. Hope to see you soon. Also—‘ and this is all in caps, Mike, so it’s important, and there’s like a ton of exclamation points so pay attention—‘Get some futzing body armor. You are fighting crime in under-armour that’s just unhealthy,’ and then she drew an arrow and signed it ‘Hawkeye’.”

She folds the paper with a sharp crease before slapping it into his hand. “Maybe between the two of us we can avoid you bleeding out in the trash.”

“I think that might be asking a lot,” Matt says, all seriousness, and Claire pokes him in the one spot on his chest that isn’t bruised or recently stitched up.

“Try harder,” she suggests before pushing gently on his shoulder. “Get some rest.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate's note with all of its important punctuation:  
> Masked Dude: Thank you for your help....?????  
> I hope you don’t mind me helping out except I don’t really care because human trafficking is everyone’s business  
> I hope your friend actually exists and can actually help you and you don’t die next to a dumpster.  
> Hope to see you soon. Also  
> GET!!!!!!!! SOME!!!!! FUTZING!!!!! BODY!!!! ARMOR!!!!!!!!!  
> You are fighting crime in under-armour that’s just unhealthy  
> >>>>\------> Hawkeye


	4. Monkeyshines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire doesn't know what she did in a past life to deserve this, but it was either really bad or really good.  
> She can't tell anymore.
> 
> (or, Claire Temple is a saint who should probably invest in those plastic furniture protectors)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I jus realized there's some really weird time dilation happening here--basically, for this 'verse, the first three episodes of Daredevil are pretty spread out over a month or two.
> 
> Also, I don't even remember what the thought process was whereby I went "yes, this is a good plot idea" but here we are.

The next few weeks pass in a blur of work--trying to find clients, trying not to starve in the meantime--and when things are slow, engaging in the small-business version of water-cooler gossip--talking about the other tenants-namely, their only neighbor, Across the Hall Investigations.

At least once a week, Matt will come in to a variation on a theme:

" _What do you think the AB stands for?" Foggy will ask, he and Karen crowding their front door._

_"Awesome Babe?" Karen guesses this morning. "I saw the owner, once, I think. A girl. Woman?"_

_"Nah," Foggy will shake his head. "Private investigating is what you do if you're a middle-aged white man with a penchant for fedoras and scotch and saying 'dame' a lot. And cigars. Maybe it stands for Absolut and Bacardi?"_

_"Whoever it is, they're quiet, at least," Karen will shrug. "But I've only seen like three people go in there."_

_"Do they come out?"_

_"Um. I don't know?"_

_"Maybe it's like that one episode of Doctor Who with the second floor that--"_

_"Arrows and Bows," Matt cuts in, before the morning gets completely derailed by Who trivia, maybe thinking a little bit more about archery than normal._

_"That is oddly specific," Foggy says after a pregnant pause._

_"What, and Bacardi and Absolut isn't?" Matt scoffs. "Anyway, my guess isn't any worse than yours."_

And eventually, they'll get to work.

His evenings? Well, those are spent following the trail the Russians have left, joined by Hawkeye more often than not. Matt is slightly alarmed at how complacent he’s getting about her presence.

And then he strays out of Hell’s Kitchen one night and finds, of all things, an archer getting dropped into a dumpster (by three men in tracksuits? who bolt as soon as they see him).

The archer isn’t his (not that Hawkeye is _his,_ per se, but the one he works with—whatever). It’s a man, average height, but solid, bones heavy with muscle. He smells like sweat and a dog, coffee and the powder-smoke smell of a grill, the sharp, wild tang of a clear sky.

He manages to drag the guy to Claire, who gives him one of the most unmistakably exasperated sighs he’s ever heard.

“I found him in a dumpster,” he grins at her.

“Oh, my God,” she says to the ceiling. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

.

The archer is patched up and resting on Claire's beleaguered couch (unconscious but stable), when Matt hears a buzzing coming from the man's chest and fishes out a cell phone.

"Maybe he's got a friend who can pick him up," he suggests, handing it to Claire.

“I recognize him. He’s Hawkeye—at least, he’s the Hawkeye who fought in the Battle of New York. Yeah," she nods. "I’m pretty sure you rescued an Avenger from a dumpster. Think he's got Iron Man on speed-dial?" she jokes, scrolling through the guy’s phone. "How many crime-fighting archers exist in this city, anyway? I didn’t realize that it _wasn’t_ a niche market.”

“I don’t know,” Matt shrugs. “I wonder if the woman who’s been helping me is Hawkeye after all, or if she just thought it was funny and doesn’t feel like correcting me?”

“She still not talking, then?”

“Not a word.”

“Hmm,” Claire hums thoughtfully. “His last call is to someone who is Hawkeye in his phone, and there’s a lot of texts to that contact--think I should send a text? I’m sure somebody’s going to start worrying, and despite appearances, I don’t actually enjoy attractive men attempting to bleed out on my couch.”

"What's the last text from that contact?"

"Ah, ' _Do you need backup?'_ and ' _wait for backup'_ \--" the phone buzzes. "Another text from the same person. Just says ' _Hawkeye'_ question mark. _'Are you all right?'"_ Claire continues to read as the phone buzzes again, and again. "' _If I don't hear back from you in five minutes I'm coming to get you_.'"

"Send a text. Say 'We found your friend. He's injured and we're trying to keep him stable.' And give the address."

Claire taps the text out. "Sent. So, we're just going to sit here, waiting for someone who may or may not be a good guy?"

"Nope. We're going to wait on the roof."

"What is it with you and roofs?"

.

It's not ten minutes later when someone arrives. Matt has been keeping an ear on the man's vitals, in case Claire needs to duck down and do some medical magic, but so far, so fine.

Except.

 _His_ Hawkeye is here _,_ clearing each floor until she reaches Claire’s door. Matt tilts his head, listening to the man’s labored breathing and _his_ (not his) Hawkeye’s even, measured breaths, and—the click of a dog’s nails on the flooring. There’s something strange about the dog--it smells like pizza—pepperoni, oregano, cheese--some form of explosive compound?  Which is, well, weird, but what's weirder is that he still can't really smell _her,_ and he highly doubts the dog was handling bombs without her.

“She’s clearing your apartment,” Matt says, leaning towards Claire. “I know her.”

“You do? How?”

“My-,” he doesn't know how to finish that thought-- _late-night coworker? fellow vigilante? partner?_ \--shakes his head, settles for, "Hawkeye.”

“Oh, you mean person who thinks you need better body armor and more self-preservation instinct?” Claire’s grinning. “Glad I finally get to meet her. We can drink and commiserate about our dumpster boys.”

Matt must frown at her, because Claire laughs at him and rubs the top of his head—well, she was probably trying to ruffle his hair but he’s got his mask on, so. He tries not to smile as he helps Claire to her feet.

He is mostly unsuccessful.

.

Matt and Claire come in through the front door and Matt makes an effort to _not_ be quiet—no sense in needlessly courting disaster—and he makes sure to say “Hawkeye, it’s us,” before letting Claire follow him in (not that she knows who _us_ is, but he has to say something.)

The man on the couch stirs at that, with a slurred, “Wazzat?”

Matt can hear Hawkeye track Claire with her bow as the nurse crosses to the man.

“Put the bow down, Hawkeye. If she wanted him dead, he’d already be. And I don’t want you to shoot her on accident.”

This earns him a very insulted-sounding snort/growl combo, and the man on the couch mumbles, “Ooh, man, that was _not_ the right thing to say. Hawkeyes don't _accidentally_ shoot anything.”

“Oh, you can hear now?” Claire’s tone is bemused as she snaps some gloves on.

“Aww, Hawkeye was nice and brought me my spare hearing aids,” there’s a sound like he’s patting Hawkeye on her thigh. “She’s a good Hawkeye.”

There’s something Matt can’t quite track—a movement of her hands in the air, and the man corrects himself, “Ugh, all right. She’s the _best_ Hawkeye.”

"You're deaf?" Claire asks, pressing the back of his head and earning a wince.

"Oh, you know. Yeah."

"Hmm," Claire's response is bland and only vaguely unimpressed as Hawkeye gestures again.

"Hey, Hawkeye would like to know if I've got a concussion."

"Probably," is Claire's curt reply. "You should go to a hospital, but I know you people aren't big on that sort of thing."

"What do you mean, _you people_?"

"Superheroes."

"Ah. What gave it away?"

"Your face. Got something against masks, Hawkeye?"

"Got something against my face?" he retorts and Matt's Hawkeye heaves an exasperated sigh and signs something.

"Hawkeye says thanks." he almost sounds petulant as Claire moves to shining a light in his eyes.

"Do you always talk about yourself in the third person, or--?"

"No, no, I'm Hawkeye, and she's Hawkeye. Who are you?"

“Claire. Are there any _more_ of you?” she probes the laceration in his side.

“Three. Well, two, and sometimes a third pretends to be me.”

Another motion from Matt’s ( _not Matt's, not_ yours, this isn't even hard) Hawkeye, and the one on the couch goes, “Fine, fine. I’ll be quiet.”

“So, you’re both Hawkeye,” Claire continues. “How does that work?”

“We’re not sur— _ooowwww_ ,” he flinches away from Claire. “Ow, lady. _Ow,_ you some sort of sadist? I’m not being rude, girly-girl, it _hurts_!” A pause, then, “It’s not like I get thrown off roofs _on purpose!_ ”

The man must be wearing a really indignant expression, because Claire laughs and says, “What did she tell you to prompt _that_ face?”

“It was rude, and I shan't say it in polite company.”

“Ah,” Claire has a smile in her voice, and they sit in silence as she inspects the man on the couch before Matt has to ask.

"Why does your dog smell like explosives?"

" _What?"_ the man on the couch jerks up before immediately falling back with the cry of _oww, oww, futz!_

"Explosives?" Claire skids her chair back from the dog.

"And something else, something strange. I don't know what it is."

"Hawkeye?" the man says, and the feel of her hands moving through the air again. "Oh," he finally says. "I forgot that was tonight. No, it's fine, she was just learning how to make and disarm bombs, and she had the dog with her. You never know when that will be a useful skill," he says more to Claire, who is still uneasy. "We have a friend who is something of a weapons expert. He didn't feed Lucky burritos, did he?" Another movement of her hands. "Oh, thank god. Oh, um, she's sorry for scaring you," again this is more to Claire. "And she thinks you lack tact," which is undoubtedly directed at Matt.

The sound of her hands hitting each other, snapping through the air, echoes in the room as Claire adjusts bandages.

“Oh, man, she's got stuff to say to _you,_ man. Thank you, by the way. From me," he tells Claire, his voice low. "Okay, she says are you done being a,” he pauses, and her hands cut sharply through the air. “A dumbass? I mean, technically she’s calling you a dumb asshole, but I think she means dumbass. Yeah, she signed it twice, she’s pretty adamant about calling you a dumbass, man. And--wait, _that's_ his outfit? Okay, she's got a point, you need a better suit, man. You're leaving all sorts of important squishy bits vulnerable and covering your eyes? That seems a little not-smart.”

"That didn't seem like the sign for not-smart," Claire peels off her gloves and tosses them in the pile of bio-waste she's got on the floor.

"I was trying to be polite."

"Well, I could use a drink, anyone else?" Claire stands and stretches.

" _Yes_ ," Couch-Hawkeye enthuses, prompting a gestured response from Hawkeye and a laugh from Claire.

"I know what that one means. Water. And she's right. But you, not-injured Hawkeye? Water, tequila, vodka, oj?" Claire makes her way to the kitchen, Hawkeye trailing her, pouring her a glass of--tequila, smells like.

"Don't I get a drink?" Matt calls.

"This is the drink-and-commiserate portion of the evening, and you are not invited to it," Claire calls back. He hears Hawkeye huffing in air, then a strangled laugh that gets cut off by a low _oowww,_ which is the most he's ever heard her almost-say. "Are you okay?" Claire sets their glasses on the counter and goes to the other woman, gripping her shoulder, while Hawkeye waves her off, and then does something to her face--points at something, showing Claire something that makes her go, "Ooh. That makes--a lot of sense, actually. It has been bothering the _hell_ out of him why you weren't talking. Now I can tell him it's nothing personal."

Hawkeye shrugs and Claire laughs. "To the people who fish vigilante heroes out of dumpsters and help them not die," she says, and they clink cups.

"I did that, too, you know," Matt informs them when they make their way out of the kitchen.

"It only counts if you haven't previously been pulled out of a dumpster yourself. Or if you've previously tried to bleed out on my sofa," Claire decrees, to which Hawkeye snaps her fingers and points at her. "See? Hawkeye here agrees. As the only two people here who _I_ have not stitched up, we are the only people who's votes count." For his part, the Hawkeye on the couch seems half-asleep, otherwise Matt thinks they might have been able to put together a solid argument.

Hawkeye makes an assenting noise in the back of her throat before pulling out a notebook from a pocket somewhere, scribbling quickly and tearing the page off for Claire.

"I'd rather you not move him for a few more hours, just to be safe," Claire says after taking a moment to read the message. "And if you're not going to a hospital, I'd like to at least know he's got someone with some sort of medical expertise nearby."

More scribbling, but this time she just turns the notebook around to let Claire read.

"You can do that?" Claire sounds impressed. "Okay, sure. Hey, discretion is always appreciated," then a beat. "Hang on, let me ask. Hey, Mike, are you okay staying for a few hours until she can get stuff set up for him? Just so nobody tries to kill him or us."

"Sure," Matt shrugs. "I think I can handle that."

There’s a sigh from the woman, the movement of air as she signs something else and then puts both of her hands on the sides of injured-Hawkeye’s head and kisses his forehead before snapping her fingers at the dog, who obligingly lays in front of the couch. The man’s hand drops to the dog’s neck, his hands combing back and forth through the fur for a moment before stilling.

She offers Matt a curt nod--and then she's gone.

.                       

Matt and Claire are back on the roof, ostensibly watching out for guys in tracksuits with murder in their hearts. Realistically, they're just chatting.

"So, what did she say there, at the end?"

"Oh, she's going to be by with a friend to pick him up in a few hours to take him someplace. She said she could send someone, but she thought I might not enjoy getting put on the map as a bleeding-Avenger-haven, which I appreciate."

"Ah."

"She also offered to replace my couch."

"That's kind of her."

They fall silent.

"Okay, fine, I won't make you ask," Claire sighs as she leans against him as the wind blows. “She’s got her jaw wired shut. There’s no reason she can’t talk, at least a little, but maybe she’s got a very distinctive voice and she doesn’t want to blow her secret identity? Anyway, she’s got a deaf friend, probably just as easy for her to sign as to speak.”

Matt takes a minute to digest this information, lets the silence of his immediate surroundings buffer him from the noise of the city around them, lets Claire's warmth seep into his side.

“So,” and Matt knows, deep down, he _knows_ that’s he’s going to regret this, “I can’t see, he can’t hear, and she can’t speak?”

There is a dead silence from Claire before she explodes with laughter. “Oh, my God,” she says between gulps of air. “Oh, my God, I’m gonna call you guys my monkeys, oh my god.”

Maybe he doesn’t regret it so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The joke had to be made.  
> I REGRET NOTHING.  
> (though I just want to say that no, Kate did not get her jaw wired shut just so I could make a hear no--see no--speak no joke)
> 
> A note on the signing:  
> I'm sure there's a sign for dumbass, but I couldn't find it, so Kate's just combining the signs for "dumb" and "asshole".  
> Clint is absolutely editorializing when he's translating.  
> The order Kate learned signing:  
> 1.) Bow/Arrow  
> 2.) Dog  
> 3.) Pizza  
> 4.) how to swear  
> 5.) literally everything else


	5. A Brief Technological Interlude RE: Kate Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like many people, Kate has a lot of important interactions through her phone.  
> all sent through the course of a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope none of these emails are real. If they are, let me know and I'll change them immediately.

 

 **STARLORD:** hey hawkeye

 **KB:** no quill

 **STARLORD:** u haven’t even heard what I was going to say

 **STARLORD:** it was all very complimentary

 **KB:** was it

 **STARLORD:** yes

 **KB:** go on then

 **STARLORD:** okay I lied

 **KB:** color me surprised

 **STARLORD:** could use ur help

 **KB:** k

 **STARLORD:** would u help us steal a diamond the size of ur head y/n?

 **KB:** no

 **STARLORD:** plz

 **KB:** no

 **STARLORD:** DAMMIT U WERE SUPPOSED 2 SAY YES NOW GAMORA GETS 2 PICK OUR JOBS FOR THE NEXT MONTH

 **KB:** how is this my problem

 **STARLORD:** gamora bet me ud say no. diamond the size of ur head hawkeye. Im so disappointed in u

 **KB:** aw poor bby

 **KB:** but srsly if u ever encounter a diamond the size of my head I want in

 **STARLORD:** dammit she got 2 u first didn’t she

 **KB:** yup.

 **KB:** have fun

 **KB:** call if u need sum1 to break u out of space jail.

 **STARLORD:** ur the worst

 **KB:** I try

**...**

From: beach_bum67@scal.com

To: ab.investigations@hellskitchen.net

Subject: Orchids

Message:

Couple seeks hero for hire (no joke)—wrongs righted, bad guys beaten, who finds no crime too small and no villain to villainous to vilify, someone who is half private eye and half super hero—a terminal do-gooder who wants to do good for us. Know where we can find one of those?

(expect a package at your office soon!)

Love, Marcus (and Finch)

**...**

**BK:** you coming up next weekend or what

 **KB:** maybe I’ve got a lot I need to do

 **BK:** :(

 **BK:** like what

 **KB:** try and get clients

 **KB:** try to figure out black mask guy

 **KB:** replace appliances in the apt that was vacated and try to find a tenant

 **BK:** very nicely adulted kate

 **BK:** we miss you

 **KB:** miss you too

 **BK:** stay safe

 **BK:** we should plan something for winter break now so we can’t not do it

 **KB:** space diner

 **KB:** intergalactic pancakes?

 **BK:** I second that

 **KB:** motion carried

**...**

From: benpierce@stark.net

To: robbie_reyes@south.district.losangeles.edu

Subject: Work Study

Message:

Mr. Reyes,

Stark Industries is pleased to be able to offer you a paid internship based out of our Malibu offices.

[[ENCODED SUB MESSAGE DECRYPTION AFHIOENVKAGAG,,,,

            Robbie please for the love of god try and chill or at least take out security cameras or learn to hack them I understand your desire to clean up your streets but unless you want a very pissed off American Icon knocking down your door you will cool it, okay?

Oh, the internship thing is real, just not with SI. You’ll be working with Mack again, if that’s all right. If not, let me know and we’ll do something different.

Tell your brother I said hi.

.,,,.,,END SUB MESSAGE DECRYPTION COMPLETE]]

We look forward to working with you.

All the best,

Benjamin F. Pierce

Stark Industries Recruiting Department

Youth Liaison

**...**

**HAWKEYE:** my printer’s broken

 **KB:** im sorry?

 **HAWKEYE:** I had something I was going to print off for you a few weeks ago but I couldn’t bc my printer is broken

 **HAWKEYE:** I emailed it to u

 **HAWKEYE:** both ur emails

 **HAWKEYE:** check one

 **KB:** ok

 **KB:** wut

 **KB:** clint no

 **KB:** omg clint

 **KB:** I can’t decide if that’s very sweet or just plain awful

 **KB:** which is basically how I feel about you

 **HAWKEYE:** success!!!

 **HAWKEYE:** im serious about it going on ur fridge I want you to see it every morning ok

 **HAWKEYE:** kate

 **HAWKEYE:** kate did u get that message

 **HAWKEYE:** kate im not kidding

…

From: uofifan@stark.net

To: benpierce@stark.net; ab.investigations@hellskitchen.net

Subject: this was supposed to be part of your homewarming gift but then I was in traction and you had a broken jaw

Message:

Considering you only haven’t done 3 and 15 I think this is fair. this is to go on your fridge door so you see it every morning and are reminded to be the best hawkeye you can be

 

[[ATTACHMENT]]

Things Katie is Not Allowed to Do

  1. Steal my dog

  2. Get a concussion

  3. Be in a coma

  4. Order pizza with pineapple on it, pineapple is not a pizza topping it’s a fruit

  5. Bone her teammates (this never ends well for either of us let’s accept it and move on)

  6. Run away with America Chavez without telling me

  7. Run away with Natasha Romanov without telling me

  8. Go to LA without backup

  9. Steal my arrows

  10. Plot to kill me with my ex-wife

  11. Go on missions without asking for help

  12. Wear her “I thought SHIELD sucked before it was cool” shirt around Steve Rogers

  13. Commit arson

  14. Fight robots by herself

  15. Die

 




**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically "I'm tired of trying to wrangle the next three chapters holy crap why is this moving so slowly jfc why are there so many two-part daredevil episodes" and I also really wanted Clint to have put that list on Kate's fridge while he helped her move in, but there's really no place where it's going to be appropriate for me to relay this information, at least not that I can see now. So, potentially, this chapter might get subsumed by other chapters. 
> 
> BK is Billy Kaplan, of course, and while I'm all for cute phone nicknames, the symmetry of BK and KB could not be denied.
> 
> I also love the idea that while the Young Avengers were on Space Adventures they encountered the GotG and that they pretend to dislike each other but really they just get up to ridiculous hijinks together and have a blast
> 
> and a big skooshy hug if you caught the email address reference.


	6. Won't You Be My Neighbor?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of the Confed Global guy, Nelson & Murdock get another surprise visitor who is either really good or really bad at b&e, and who might also be a ridiculously improbable ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'ed. Matthew Murdock may be the devil of Hell's Kitchen but this chapter is the devil of this fic. I'm posting it so I don't keep re-writing it. If you see anything glaringly awful please let me know because I can't even tell anymore.  
> BEGONE, FOUL CHAPTER!

"Are you going to get that?" Matt and Foggy are just sitting down in the conference room when there’s a knock at their door.

“After our last walk-in?” Foggy says. “Nope, no way.”

Another knock.

“Foggy,” Matt’s voice holds a warning. Foggy doesn't move, probably trying to out-last him (you'd think by now Foggy would know that's a losing proposition).

“Hey, hi, I can tell you’re in there,” a female voice calls, low and mellow and a little hoarse. “I’m not a creepy-cute guy with questionable business offers and large checks, if that’s what you’re worried about. Also, I have bagels. Oh, um, and I’m your neighbor? Your across the hall neighbor?”

“Bagels,” Matt shrugs. "Might be worth the shark-in-a-skinsuit risk."

“Could be a lie.”

It’s not—Matt can smell four different kinds—plain, cheese, blueberry, cinnamon crunch, and there seems to be a divider keeping the flavors separate which is nice—and three tubs of cream cheese (her heartbeat is strong if a little fast; she's nervous but not too nervous, she keeps moving her jaw around like she's stretching it.)

“Fine,” Foggy throws himself out of his chair like he’s twelve and not a grown man and a lawyer. Matt doesn’t bother to hide his smile as Foggy stalks to the door, every other step heaving a sigh until he reaches it and takes a moment to push his hair out of his face.

“Hey, if you don’t mind,” the woman says through the door. “I’m going to try something?”

“Wait, what?” is all Foggy gets out when there is the unmistakable sound of a lock being jimmied and the door swinging open a few seconds later.

“Yeah, I did that with a credit card,” she says. “You guys need better locks. I’m AB Investigations. I can recommend some for you, if you’d like.”

There’s a shuffle of bagel-container and drink-carrier, and then the fresh smell of a business card—not brand new, but still crisp, like she hasn’t had much call to pull them out. She clears her throat, straightens her shoulders. “AB Investigations. Surveillance, counter-surveillance, security, consulting, you name it I’ve probably tried it. Like I said, I'm across the hall.”

“ _You’re_ the P.I.?” Foggy clarifies, looking at her card and flicking it through his fingers.

“Among other things.”

It’s the _other things_ that give Matt pause, not the stuff that he can categorize (ink and newsprint; blood close to the surface where she’s skinned her palm; the heat of dry burn on her shin; something fresh and floral clings to her hair) but more the things he can’t (beeswax and lavender; leather, worn soft with age. Wood; two different kinds, and the tang of her sweat cooling in the air; the sound of her dry skin catching on the smooth paper of her business cards; when she moves the fabric of her jacket slides across two metal sticks--batons, strapped to her thigh. Maybe he hit it on the nose when he'd joked about AB standing for _Arrows and Bows._ )

“Aren’t you a little—“ Foggy pauses, shakes his head, and Matt can practically  _hear_ him try and think of a tactful thing to say, and fail. “A little _not_ a middle-aged white man in a fedora who drinks too much whiskey?”

“Thank you for noticing,” she says, bright and overly sincere in a way that has Foggy laughing outright. “So, do you want these bagels or not? My intern doesn’t start for another week and I’ve been repeatedly told that I’m not allowed to live only on bagels, which, I’ve gotta say, is pretty rich coming from a guy who would eat pizza and coffee morning, noon, and night if left to his own devices.”

(There’s something else about her; layered over the faint taste of lavender and electricity, there's--something. It's not a fluttering in her veins, not really, but that's what it feels like--like wings, like feathers. She feels like open air and a clear view of the city. She feels like vertigo; like the two Hawkeyes. So what _are_ the odds are of her actually being Hawkeye? Probably slim?)

“Um, yes, sure, come in? We're in the middle of a case so we can’t chat long.” Foggy takes the food from her, steps aside so she can come in.

“Oh, please, don’t want to cramp your style, just wanted to introduce myself, I’ve been across the way for a while but haven’t had a chance to say hi, so this is me doing that.” she gestures expansively now that she doesn't have her arms full, apparently talking just as much with her hands as with her voice.

“We were kind of wondering who you were,” Foggy admits. “Why don’t you come in and meet my partner? I’m Foggy Nelson, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Foggy. I’m Kate.”

She stays a half-step behind Foggy, hesitating in the doorway to the conference room as Foggy introduces him. "This is my partner, Matt Murdock."

"It's nice to meet you, Miss--?" Matt stands, extending his hand and letting her find it.

"Bishop. Bishop as in the chess piece and Kate as in don’t call me Katie or I’ll throw you through a window.” There's a smile in her voice as she takes his hand, her grip assured and firm (the tips of her three middle fingers are smoother and softer than the rest of her hand; there's something in the way she stands and gestures; the way her hand feels and the way the air moves through her hair; how she comes up to just under his chin--)

Hawkeye might be a P.I. in Hell's Kitchen.

Just, _what._

“I don’t know,” Foggy settles back in his chair. “I’m a pretty big guy, Miss Bishop. Don't know if you could throw me anywhere.”

Matt isn't sure if he should smirk or scowl; if she is Hawkeye, she can, and would--and did, actually, last week she downed two guys twice her size that he knows of. Assuming that he _is_ correct, and she _is_ Hawkeye.

“Oh, Jesus, call me Kate. And you know what they say—the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Never underestimate someone with a lower center of gravity than you.”

Matt tilts his head towards the pair of them, trying to get a better read on her, when Kate inhales sharply.

“Who _punched_ you, man?”

“I fell taking out the trash,” Matt shrugs, and before he’s done speaking he knows she doesn’t buy it.

“On someone’s fist?”

“A doorknob.”

“If you say,” she’s absolutely not convinced. "Want me to take a look at it?"

"I'm fine, honestly."

If he wasn't sure that Kate Bishop, private investigator, was Hawkeye, the disbelieving noise that comes from the back of her throat and through her teeth would have convinced him of it.

(She's made that noise approximately twenty times over the past month and a half at him; it's her. Hawkeye is Kate Bishop.

Also, _how._ )

"So you were saying that Confed Global guy was talking to you, too?" Foggy pauses mid-bagel preparation.

"The cute guy with the creepy vibe and the cufflinks? Yeah, he offered me a nice big check to--what was it? Be honest and serve some papers, potentially keep an eye on some people."

"Did you take it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, hell yeah, I took it. There were a lot of zeros on that check."

(She's lying but why would she feel the need to lie about that?)

"Well, maybe we can help each other out? Figure out who we got in bed with? I don't know about you, but to us the whole thing seemed a little--less than aboveboard, right?"

"Oh, just a little," Kate pushes the bagels toward Matt. "I could do that. Yeah, give me a couple hours, see what I can dig up?"

"We have our assistant checking into the company, maybe you can look into the guy," Matt suggests.

"Done and done," Kate slaps her hands on her thighs. "I'll drop by in while? Let you know what I find. Oh, and, ah, it was nice to meet you."

"Oh, hey!" Foggy calls just before she hits the door. "Do you like dogs?"

"Everybody likes dogs," she calls back. "I have one. Half of one. Partial custody of one?"

"Thanks!" Foggy says, then turns to Matt. "See?"

.

"Hi," Kate says a few hours later, breezing through their door without so much as a knock or a trace of hesitation.

"Um, excuse me, who are you?" Karen stands to stop her.

"AB Investigations, hi, you are?"

"Karen--wait, you're the PI?"

"Yes?"

"Foggy, you owe me twenty bucks!" Karen crows. "He didn't think you were a woman."

"Ohhh, that explains why he said I wasn't a old white guy this morning."

"She's helping with the Confed Global guy, Karen," Foggy calls from the conference room. "C'mon in, Kate. Find anything?"

"Not yet. I've sent some feelers out, hopefully something will shake loose tonight or tomorrow. Got some more places to check, too. What's the case, anyway? I probably should have asked that before I agreed to help, shouldn't I have?" 

Karen stifles a laugh.

"Murder," Foggy says.

"A man named Healy attacked another man in a bowling alley. One Mr. Prohaszka," Matt elaborates.

“Wait, Healy? Not,” she cocks her head to the side like she's listening to something. "John Healy? Balding, kinda flat nose, ears on the bigger side?”

“Yeah, you know him?” Foggy sits back.    

“Know _of_ him. Healy's a hired gun--too murderous to be a hitter but not professional enough to be a merc. Typically does dirty work for the Russians-not _just_ the Russians, of course, but enough.”

“Do I want to know why you keep an eye on the Russians and their hired guns?” Foggy asks. "Or, really, how and why you know _any_ of that?"

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say no?”

“Fair enough,” Foggy shrugs. “I enjoy plausible deniability as much as the next guy.”

“Aw, man, you and I are going to get along great.” She sounds like she’s grinning.

“How do you even do that, keep an eye on hired killers?” Karen pulls up a chair to join the discussion.

“I don’t think you want to know that, either,” Kate shakes her head, popping her jaw.

“You wouldn’t, um,” Karen clears her throat, and her voice is more confident after she does. “Know anything about a man in a black mask?”

“Oh, that dumbass?” the words seem to slip out of their own accord. “Um, sorry. He saved your life, right? I’d love to get a statement from you about that.”

“Why would you call him a dumbass?” Karen's voice rises, her hands splayed on the table.

“Have you seen his outfit?” judgement rings through Kate’s question.

“Yeah, the black and the mask.”

“Are you kidding me?” Foggy interrupts. “Are you judging him not based on his illegal vigilante nutbag activities, but his _outfit_?”

“He’s fighting organized crime in under-armor and cargo pants, okay, I’m allowed to make judgements based on that.” There’s the sound of Kate drumming her hands on the table and raising her arms in an I-rest-my-case sort of way. (not just drumming, a combination of tap-tap-slide; it's almost surreal hearing this argument from the person who makes it vehemently in writing at least once a week, she is _actually offended_ by what he fights crime in.)

“How do you know so much about his costume?” Foggy doesn't bother to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

“Yeah, I’ve seen him in person and even I couldn’t have told you that.” Karen adds.

(Kate's heart does some strange things; for a second he thinks she's teetering on the edge of making some ridiculous proclamation before at the last second she decides against it.)

“Pictures,” Kate says vaguely. “You know. Security footage. Just a shot here and there. Oh, also, he saved one of the women in my building a month or so ago. The Russian syndicate in Hell’s Kitchen is big into human trafficking and she was kidnapped—and this guy, this man in a black mask, beat the hell out of the guys who grabbed her and a few other women, told them to run for the cops. So I’ve been looking into him.”

“Is someone paying you to do that?” Matt asks.

“No, I was just bored, and you know, personal interest."

"Wish I could thank him for saving my life, is all," Karen ducks her head as she says it.

"If I see him I'll pass the message along," her tone is dry, almost bland as she says it. "Hey, Karen, let me see what you've dug up on the company?"

"Um, sure, give me a second."

"Don't you just love shell companies?" Kate leans over Karen's shoulder, bouncing a little as she pulls up the information she's found. "I love cracking them open to get to the gooey center of embezzlement and garden-variety felonies, don't you?"

"This is my first."

Kate inhales sharply though her teeth. "Ohmygod baby's first shell company!"

"What," Karen swivels to look at her, laughing a little.

"Commemorative picture, smile, Karen!" Kate fumbles with her phone. "My old boss used to do obnoxious stuff like this so that when I passed the PI exam she had this, like, really awful and slightly inappropriate scrapbook for me. Oh, nice, you're very photogenic. You should try and convince your bosses to hire some less attractive people, you're a very intimidating group of pretties."

Matt chokes on a laugh; Foggy just chokes.

"Well, I think we've hit a wall," Karen sits back. "Any other ideas?"

"Not ones that you or your bosses will approve of. Want me to take it and run with it?"

"You'd do that?"

"I told you guys, I'm bored. I don't have any clients. Well, I do, but they're the women who live in my building."

There's a lie in there, somewhere, but Matt isn't sure which part of it is the lie.

"Well, _I_ think it's time to pack it in for the night." Foggy stands and stretches, before moving to turn the lights off. "When this is all over we're going to take our neighbor out to Josie's, right, guys? You can have the eel."

"That sounds like a disgusting and terrible idea," Kate stands.

"It is," Karen agrees, grabbing her purse.

"I'm in." Kate chuckles, shaking her head as she grabs her jacket and swings it on, then freezes with an arm halfway through a sleeve.

"Kate?" Karen stands behind her. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I just--" she's facing Matt; her heartbeat is doing wild jumpy things. "I just had a weird thought, we'll meet you in the hall." Kate pulls her jacket the rest of the way on, waiting for Karen to leave before she closes the space between her and Matt, not quite crowding him, but closer than is strictly necessary for new acquaintances.

He feels her exhale on his chin as she looks up at him, senses the ways she's flexing her jaw from left to right, the way her head tilts as she regards him.

"Everything okay?" Foggy calls.

"Yeah, just a second," Kate leans back to reply before reaching forward and jabbing Matt in his side, the motion unexpected and quick enough that he doesn't catch it, can't stop her.

It's unfortunate that Hawkeye has really good aim, because she pokes him right in the stitches he's been bleeding through all day, and he winces before he can school his features.

"Oh, _what,_ " she sounds strangely indignant, her voice creeping up a few sharp notes. "Are you _kidding_ me?"

"Guys, you coming?" Karen pokes her head back into the office.

"I'll lock up, Karen, you and Foggy go ahead." Matt says over Kate's shoulder. ( _Typical,_ he hears Foggy mutter as two pairs of footsteps walk down the hall)

"Are you futzing kidding me?" she hisses. " _Fell down_ my _ass_. Are you--"

"Could we _not_ do this now?" the words grit past his teeth.

"Oh, okay, when _would_ you like to do this?" she's practically vibrating with a combination of sarcasm and incredulity.

"After this trial, when we're not all trying to figure out who we just took large amounts of money from? Maybe? Does that work for you?" his nerves are a little frayed and he doesn't have the patience for this right now.

"Okay, fine," she steps out of his space. "Fine. I can be a professional. We'll just put this on the back burner for a few days."

"Fine."

" _Fine_." Even her exhale seems aggressive as she holds herself taut for a moment, then releases it all--breath, tension, aggression, her shoulders dropping. "I'll get back to you tomorrow with any information I find about Confed. Have a nice night, Mr. Murdock."

.

(He knows who Hawkeye is.

Unfortunately, she knows who he is.

He's not sure how.

Bad thing or good thing?

He has a list of pros and cons.

Unfortunately, the list is weighted pretty heavily in favor of the pros.

He can deal with this. He can deal with an ally. Just don't get attached. Don't get reliant. Don't _depend_ on her, just accept the help when it's there.

He's not attached. He doesn't even like her.

He's almost convinced himself of this when his alarm goes off.)

.

"Creepicute guy doesn't have a record--or if he does, his face isn't attached to it," Kate calls down the hall the next morning as Matt and Foggy approach their office.

It would seem that Kate is sitting on the floor in their doorway, replacing the door lock for Nelson and Murdock.

“Can we stop calling him creepicute guy?” Foggy begs.

“What? You know who I’m talking about. And he _is_ creepy, and he _is_ cute. Until I have a name, that’s what he’s being called.”

"Also, it's barely eight. Why are you here this early? When did you even wake up?"

"Oh, honey, grow up. I haven't been to bed yet," Kate scoffs, testing the bolt as Foggy steps over her.

“He's not cute, he’s a dick,” Karen interjects, shuffling awkwardly in the doorway before Kate leans out of her way.

“I’m not disagreeing that he's a dick, but he's also cute, and we can’t just call him ‘that dick’ because it’ll get confusing. I'm not saying cuteness excuses whatever he's probably doing. I know genocidal whack jobs who are cute, doesn't mean they aren't genocidal whack jobs.”

“ _Such_ a dick,” Karen mutters to the table.

"I can't tell if you're serious half the time or kidding," Foggy strides to his office as Kate tries the handle again. "Do you _actually_ know a genocidal maniac, or is that hyperbole?"

"I have never in my entire life used hyperbole," she says without missing a beat as she gathers up her tools. "All done. Much harder to break in now."

"Miss Bishop," Matt says before he can think better of it. "Thank you."

"Hey, no sweat," she pauses, hand on the handle. "I've got your back."

(she does, is the thing; he can hear her on the roof behind him when he's beating up a blackmailer after the first day of the trial. She catches up with him a few blocks later. "He wasn't very good at following instructions, was he? Also, Creepicute was there. Got a license number from a black SUV. Just if you were wondering. I might hang around you the rest of the trial, see if he comes back."

He wants to say "no, go away, I'm fine, I don't need your help."

What winds up coming out of his mouth sounds a lot more like "Thanks."

"Sure," she says, before swinging up a fire escape and taking off across the rooftops.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1.) I saw somewhere that Kate has a photographic memory and I ran with it.  
> Also, I feel like if Kate can keep tabs on A.) The Russians (particularly the tracksuit variety) and B.) Madam Masque she will. You should always try and know where the people who want to kill you are.
> 
> 2.) If Kate wants questionably clean money she's got a Trickster she can blackmail.
> 
> 3.) I made that one-off joke about B&E and it bloomed into a headcanon that Kate was one of those rich kids who stole stuff because she could, and then she stopped because that's bad, and then hanging out with Clint re-honed those skills.  
> So, yeah, I headcanon Kate as a pretty good pickpocket.  
> 4.) And finally, I initially had a chapter between this one and that last one that involved Kate meeting Kamala Khan, but I felt like it was dragging the pace down--this chapter takes place somewhere in episode three and if I let myself each episode will have three chapters and we will never actually get to the meat of things.  
> Anyway, I think I might post it anyway, as a series of one-shots about what Kate does when she's not being a PI (SPOILERS: it involves talking teen heroes off ledges during finals week, breaking people out of space jail, and getting thrown through windows.)


	7. Anything You Can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disturbing end to the Healy case, Matt inadvertently seeks out the one person who might have advice on killing-but-not-killing people.  
> Okay, if we're being honest: Matt Murdock makes a friend in spite of himself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two losers, sittin' and talkin'. Let them have their peace, life is going to get a lot worse before it gets better

“That was a nice closing argument, counselor,” Kate is laying on top of a shipping container, staring at the murky New York night sky, trying and failing to pick out constellations.

“You were in the courtroom?” Matt--and it's nice to have something to call him besides "Mask Guy" or "Dumbass" or "Are You Futzing Kidding Me"--uses the narrow space between two containers, bouncing from side to side to get to her.

“Technically, no. I was not _in_ the courtroom. I may or may not have been above it. It’s a lot easier to do covert surveillance when you’re in the ceiling. Hypothetically.” He crouches next to her more than sits, the line of his shoulders and neck rigid; the knuckles of his gloves look damp and he keeps flexing his hands against his knees. "So, what did he tell you?"

"Who?"

"The guy whose blood is on your hands."

What little she can see of his face pales at that.

"Wait, did you _actually_ kill someone?"

"Why should I trust you?"

"Are you _kidding_ me? What, me having your back for a couple months isn't good enough, now? Now I can talk and I'm dangerous, oh oh oh," she does what is her default you're-being-an-asshole imitation.

"You're right," he says after a beat, his mouth at least looking chagrined. "Sorry. That's unfair."

"Apology accepted, even though it was terrible. Now, what happened?"

"Healy," Matt says, swallowing hard. "I went to get information from him--and he gave it to me. And then he said I should have killed him, and threw himself face-first into a fence spike."

"Oh. Ew." Kate doesn't know what else to say to that. Is he the kind of person who needs help hiding a body? Is this even a situation that requires body-hiding? "You okay?"

"I'm not sure."

"Here," she presses a bottle into his hands, tapping it against them until he takes it. "Drink. It's tea. Ish."

"How do I know you're not trying to poison me?"

"Really? That's the card you're going to play? All right," Kate shrugs, snags the bottle back, twisting the cap off and taking a deep draw before replacing the cap and slapping it back into his palm. "Happy?"

"I don't usually share drinks--"

"It's fortifying. _Drink it_ ," she says through her teeth.

He hesitates, the open bottle halfway to his mouth, swirls it a little--sniffing?

"What is that? It's not tea."

She stops herself from lunging at him, but only just. He gets the message and takes a drink.

"Good. Food?"

"What? No. I--did you pack a picnic, or something?"

"Crime fighting is hungry work, and you do it all day."

"I'm fine."   

"Okay." Kate lets it drop, relaxing back into her original position, the cold of the metal container seeping through to her back. "So what _did_ he tell you?"

“Not much. A name, the guy who I think is behind all this--Confed Global, Union Allied--they don’t say his name, apparently,” Matt shrugs.

“What is he, Voldemort?” She snorts and shakes her head. “Cheap scare tactic."

“Well, it works," Matt finally settles next to her, sitting with his legs over the side of the container. "A man killed himself because he said the name Wilson Fisk. ever heard of him?"

Kate shakes her head against the container. "Don't think so. Maybe?" She shakes her head again, "Maybe?"

"That's helpful." He takes another drink, which Kate observes with a fair amount of smug satisfaction. "Did you find anything else out?"

"Nothing super helpful. Just--crime organizations are being pushed out of Hell's Kitchen, I don't know if you were aware of that."

"Really? Have you not been paying attention to the organized crime we've been fighting? Doesn't seem like anyone's being pushed out."

"Now, see, this is where the distance thing comes in handy. You're too caught up in the shuffle of the players to see the play. The last major Italian boss just bolted. The guy Healy killed? Moved drugs. A third party snapped up his holdings, so it will be interesting to see where they wash up. Someone's consolidating crime in Hell's Kitchen. The Russians aren't just pissed, they're scared, too, according to my source, though that might have to do with the fact that a guy in a black mask and a woman with a bow keep liberating their product and beating the crap out of their muscle."

"Is your source one of the women in your building?"

Kate reaches over and thumps his chest--gently, though, trying to avoid any of the injuries she knows about.

"Not for an insider's look at crime, no. That's a job for my _pauk sestra."_

"I know "sister" but the other--?"

"It's best if you don't know. Just--trust the info."

"Okay," he raises his hands in surrender.

They sit in a mostly comfortable silence for a few moments before Kate sits up, wanting to see his reaction when she asks, “Are you really blind? Partially not-blind? Nearly blind? Or is this that one episode of Arrested Development?”

"What's Arrested Development?"

"You know, never mind. Just answer the question."

“It’s complicated.”

“Okay, look, this isn’t our relationship status on Facebook. I’m not going to go shouting your secrets from the rooftops just because I can.”

He looks like he’s going to say something, stops himself. Sits back.

Kate sighs.

“Look, so, hypothetically, if I accidentally shoot you in the eye with an arrow--?”

”Accidentally? Well, I don’t know if I want to work with someone with such poor aim there’s a chance I’m going to get accidentally shot in the eye. No thanks,” he moves like he’s going to push off of the shipping container, so Kate rolls her eyes and snags his sleeve, tugging him back.

“I’ll have you know I am a highly trained professional who’s been doing this for over a decade. Okay, if I shoot you in the eye it’s absolutely going to be on purpose, because I don’t miss. Assuming you can’t, like, parkour out of the way like you do.”

“You never miss?” he cocks his head at her, smirking a little, then sobering. "You never miss." It's a statement the second time, his head cocked like he's remembering every shot she's taken around him, cataloguing them into hits and misses and coming up with a zero on the misses. "That's impressive, Hawkeye."

“It’s a skill,” Kate shrugs like it’s no big deal, even though it is. It’s a Hawkeye thing, the first lesson ever imparted on her by Clint: impossible shots only stay impossible if you don’t ever try them. She thinks about that for a minute, about how far they are from a sullen SHIELD agent sent in to bust the chops of an angry teenager.

They're better now, better people. Not so sullen or angry, for one. Still sullen and angry, sure, just--not _all_ the time.

She knocks her shoulder into Matt's. “That was very slick, by the way.”

“What?” his smirk is back, bigger, and Kate smiles back in spite of herself. “The redirect. Rile me up, insult me a little, get me to admit something about myself while giving me no information about yourself. Slick.”

“Would have been slicker if you hadn’t noticed,” he shrugs.

“Well,” Kate can’t really argue with that. “True. If I hadn’t noticed, you might have gotten something out of me that I’d actually care if you knew.”

He cocks his head. “Are you always thinking three steps ahead?”

“Three? Please,” she scoffs. “How else do you think I’ve stayed alive so long?”

“Dumb luck?” he smirks, then sobers. “I’ve got to know—how did you recognize me?”

“Um. I just—recognized you?” it’s one of those _things_ that she can do that other people can’t, or most other people.

“But how?”

“Your face? And height. Basically just you.”

“I wear a mask,” he needlessly gestures. “And lots of people are my height.”

“I have a really good memory?” she says it like she’s not sure, and even with the mask on she can tell his expression is incredulous. “I have a really good memory,” she twists it into a statement. “Really good. I’ve actually pissed off a few cops by doing mental face-traces,” she draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them. “Spatial awareness stuff is easy, distances, heights, that sort of thing. I knew it was you, because I knew how tall you were, and particularly how tall you are in relation to _me,_ I knew what you smelled like to a certain extent, and I knew how you hold yourself--though to be honest you hold yourself differently when you're doing this than in your office. The big one was what your mouth and jaw look like. I don't know if I would have thought about it if your partner hadn't started turning off the lights. Half of your face was in shadows and I was just kind of like _oh, I recognize that jaw_.”

"My _jaw_?"

"Angles and distance, man, that's how face-traces work. And look! You've used up you daily allotment of evasions. Are you really blind, and _if_ you are, how could you tell it was me?"

“I _am_ blind," he snaps, although it lacks his customary frustration. He seems tired. "I could tell it was you because of your height, your mannerisms, the fact that you had your sticks strapped to your leg and that half-annoyed half-exasperated noise you make all the time."

Kate’s pretty sure her expression is, at best incredulous, and at worst, a version of her “I just met Deadpool and didn’t realize it was Deadpool and called him Freddy Krueger to his face” which Clint has repeatedly assured her is a very distinctive face and one that he demonstrates frequently.

“Okay, you're blind. Are you stupid? Stupid lucky? Or just not telling me something?”

“Of course I’m not telling you something. I’m not telling you…a lot of somethings,” he finishes, kind of lamely, in Kate’s opinion.

“Whatever, man,” she rolls her eyes, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “I guess I know you can be killed, that you don't have an advanced healing factor, and that you've got great reflexes. You can take a beating like a champ or an idiot, depending on how you look at it, you've got a hodge-podge of fighting styles which implies that you haven't had a single instructor for any extended period of time--not years, by any stretch. You know how to use weapons but you seem to prefer not to, and you're really good at using your surroundings to your advantage. What did I miss?"

His jaw doesn't drop, exactly, but he does look a little like she's slapped him across the face with a trout.

"Were you a profiler before you were a PI?"

"I've been watching you fight for a few months now, okay, I think maybe I picked up some stuff. Also, _I have a good memory._ "

“Point taken. I _am_ blind,” he reiterates, “but I still—see, in a manner of speaking.”

“Elaborate.”

“My other senses paint a picture of the world, I guess you could say. Heartbeats, breathing patterns—changes in pressure and temperature, smells—all of my other senses, they’re very advanced, very strong. You  _see_ distance, but I get the same impression through sound—echoes, reverberation. I can hear really, really well."

"How well?"

He tilts his head to the side. "The lightbulb three rows over is flickering. It's going to go out within the hour, I'd guess. The man in the security booth has a cold, he just took some cold medication. Two blocks over, a drunk couple-arguing about who's paying for the taxi. Someone's on a motorcycle, they'll drive by in about a minute and a half. Someone's selling drugs--ten blocks away."

"Jesus."

"Some of that is smell, most of it hearing. You, Miss Bishop, are an enigma in that department."

"First off, I'm Hawkeye in the field. Secondly, _what?_ "

"I can't smell you. Your heartbeat, I can hear, your pulse, your breathing, but I can't smell you.”

“ _Pardon_?”

“Smell. Everybody has a distinctive smell, or do things that give them distinctive smells. Now, I could smell you when we were at the office; wood, and beeswax, among other things. But out here—you don’t have a smell. Maybe—“ he leans a little closer and takes a big whiff. “Maybe a little like ozone.”

“You're going to be a hard man to keep secrets from, aren't you?” Kate shakes her head. “I don't know about the smell thing, though--" she cuts herself off abruptly. “Hang on.” She takes something off of her head, a hard shell of a skullcap, something thin that fits tight to her skull and _now_ he can smell her, lavender and wood and sky (dog and pizza, bitter coffee and caramel).

“That’s quite the helmet. It’s blocking your _smell._ ”

He can hear her turning it over in her hands. “One of my former teammates—Wiccan—he gave this to me. Told me it would protect me. He’s really powerful, and he can’t always control it. I’m guessing he be-spelled it to, quite literally, protect me, and maybe just didn’t realize what all that would entail. He knows a few…people…with heightened senses. Being located by smell is not out of the realm of possibility.” She raps her knuckles on it.

“Be-spelled?”

“He’s called Wiccan, what did you expect?”

He shrugs and smiles a little. "Nothing, I guess."

Kate flicks her hair over her shoulder, drumming her heels against the corrugated metal.

"What's it like, looking at the world like that?"

"Like--looking at the world on fire--changing and flickering and full of heat. Nothing ever constant."

Kate presses her leg against his for a second, not liking the way his jaw is clenching or the way his hands rest on his knees, tension or something else that she doesn't know him well enough to categorize. It takes a minute, but it works; the touch seeming to jolt him out from wherever he'd gone. They sit in silence for a few moments.

Kate digests what she's learned--the fact that he's blind and more graceful than Clint might make her smile more than it should, and the way he describes their surroundings in broad strokes and insane detail makes her think more of pointillism than anything else, and when he uses the phrase _world on fire_ , hesitantly, like he’s not sure it makes sense—it doesn’t, but it does, which, to be fair, is how Kate feels about modern art as a whole. And it’s a phrase she knows is going to stay with her, something she’s going to turn over and around in her head for a while.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” she breaks the silence.

“No, I haven’t always been blind,” he answers, plastering on a stiff smile.

“No, um,” she laughs a little, surprised. “I was going to ask how do you live with _neighbors_? If you can hear everything—“

Matt laughs, looking almost surprised at the way it bubbles out of him. “Sometimes it’s worse than others? Usually I can keep my focus narrow, block things out. If I’m sick, or really tired—it’s harder.”

“Wow,” Kate isn't sure if it's rude to laugh. “That—that sucks.”

“College was worse,” he says it out of the corner of his mouth, like it's a big secret. “I wasn’t as focused, and rooms are closer, people louder. Thin walls.”

Kate tries not to laugh and fails. “And you _finished?_ Wow, you _are_ a superhero.”

He ducks his head and smiles. "I don't think that's part of being a superhero."

"Agree to disagree: you could hear and smell everyone in your dorm having sex or getting high or making pizza bites at three AM. And yet, you still graduated. On time? That's super-something, okay."

"If you say," he's still smiling, shy and unsure and a little more adorable than a terrifying masked vigilante has any right to be.

“Can I ask another slightly personal question?”

“Shoot.”

“I was going to ask how you _eat_ with that kind of sensitivity.”

“Oh. Well, I can kind of ignore it, if I have to. When I don’t—organic food. Local stuff, if I can manage. Not a lot of junk food.”

“Man, how do you do coffee? No offense, but I’ve seen the stuff at your office. That stuff's awful for _me,_ and I don’t have your super-tongue.”

Matt makes a face at her, and she laughs.

“Okay, so that was weird. Apologies. I guess I should warn you that Hawkeyes are by nature very awkward creatures.”

“I'll keep that in mind. As for, coffee, I don't drink a lot if I can help it. Sometimes you can’t. Tea, I guess?”

“Hmmm,” Kate leans back, thinking. Organic stuff is easy, though getting him to _eat_ it might be another matter entirely. He stands after a moment, looks like he's going to just step off the edge of the container into air when he pauses.

"One more question. Did you just guess about the bagels?"

Kate doubles over, laughing hard enough that it hurts her jaw, subsiding into _oww ow owww_.

"Fair warning: the walls between our offices are pretty thin, and your partner talks about bagels _a lot_. That's not, like, a lawyer-euphemism, is it? Oh, god, tell me it's not."

"It's not." he extends a hand and pulls her up when she takes it. "Ready to go beat up some Russian muscle?" He grins outright, and--

Well, it's not a bad grin, is all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kate might not actually be the best choice to take care of people, but you'll never convince her of that. Some people need to be mildly bullied into taking care of themselves. 
> 
> Concussions suck, and Billy doesn't like his friends hurting. Hence, helmet. (Hawkeyes are prone to head injuries; this seems like common sense.)  
> I also feel like Billy gave her a 'bigger on the inside' clutch-type bag so Kate can always have her bow on her, even at formal events. (WHY WOULD YOU NOT?)
> 
> pauk sestra is (supposedly) the Russian transliteration for Spider Sister. I feel like Kate and Natasha are exactly the kind of dorks who do this.


	8. Somebody to Lean On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As weird as Claire's life has been--comparatively, it's really not that weird.  
> Unless you count the heart-to-hearts with archers and superhero babysitters.  
> Yeah, then it's pretty weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of episode 4, In the Blood.  
> Sometimes a change in perspective does a body good. (I hope)

Kate--well, Hawkeye, but she’d introduced herself as Kate this time—talks with her hands.

A lot.

Excessive gestures, some signs; the latter almost unconsciously, like she’d gotten so used to actually speaking with her hands that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it (until she does, and then she manages to hold her hands still for two, three minutes before losing track of them again).

It gives Claire this weird, inexplicable pang in her chest to know that Matt isn’t ever going to see that—sure, he might get the picture with his whole world-on-fire thing, but she doesn’t know how well that can translate rapid-fire hand gestures and wild gesticulations that sometimes pull her whole body with them. She doesn't know why it's making her feel like that; maybe getting beaten up makes a person maudlin.

With all Kate's wild arms and hands, she hasn’t touched Claire. There’s at least two feet between them at all times.

“You’re okay, though? Strange men grabbing you in the night—“

“Yeah,” Claire nods slowly, feeling the truth of the words. “It could have been worse. I’m not saying it wasn’t bad, but—“

“You remind me of Hawkeye,” Kate shakes her head with a wry grin. "Just because it could have been worse doesn't mean it wasn't bad."

“I’m okay, Kate. Really.”

“Well,” she hops up on the back of the couch. “If you need to talk, or if you think of something, or want to get coffee,” Kate scribbles down her number, passes it to Claire. “I keep weird hours, so don’t feel bad if you’re up at four and need company.”

"I think I'll be fine--but thanks." Claire smiles, then winces, how sad is it that even smiling hurts?

“Had enough of the superhero set yet?” Kate grins wryly at her.

Claire doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“As soon as you don’t look or feel like you’ve been through a wood chipper, I’m teaching you some self-defense, okay? Just so I feel better about my life. And I think I’ll steal one of my friend’s tazers. She’s got a whole collection of them, so she won’t miss it.”

“Okay.” Claire hesitates, wanting to fill the silence, but not sure how. “Hey, Kate?”

“Yo?”

“You ever been beaten up bad before?”

“A few times. Once by robots, which I really can’t recommend.”

“Robots? Really?”

“Well, more androids, I guess? They looked human.”

The light from the billboard flashes, casting strange shadows over Kate’s face, throwing scars that Claire normally doesn’t see in sharp relief.

And Claire’s seen Matt’s scars, been the cause of some of them, sewn him up, but it's different somehow, with Kate—soft faded slivers of pink, a nose that is just slightly off-kilter from being broken, probably. Old scars. Old wounds.

“Kate, how long have you been doing this?”

“Teaching people self-defense? Or helping people who have been through a lot of shit?”

“The superhero thing, Kate. Come on.”

Kate draws her knees to her chin, studying Claire, as if she’s debating telling Claire or just bolting.

Claire stares right back.

“Ten years, about.”

“Jesus,” Claire says before she can stop herself. “How old were you when you started? Ten?”

“Sixteen,” Kate smiles a little at her, a sad smile. “Had a team. It’s a long story, and not worth telling, really.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Someday, I’ll tell you, how about that? It’s not entirely my story to tell, anyway.”

"Can you tell me any of it? I'd rather not just sit here staring at each other in silence."

Kate wrinkles her nose, squints her eyes a little, like she's deciding where to start--or even _if_ to start.

"When I was sixteen? My sister got married. And some crime guys that my dad pissed off decided to hold the wedding hostage. And these three guys--kids, really, blast in through the stained glass and try to rescue us."

"Did they? I mean, you're here, so yeah?"

"They kind of made it worse, actually. One of them had some throwing stars and managed to piss off the ringleader, who decided to put a gun to my head."

"Jesus."

"I'd managed to grab one of the stars, though--stabbed the guy in the leg with it, and I sort of--disarmed him."

"You were _sixteen?_ "

"They weren't very good."

"That's--"

"I had some self-defense under my belt at that point."

"You were _sixteen._ That's impressive. Nobody got hurt?"

"Just the guy I stabbed in the leg. Some black eyes. I sliced my hand up a little with the star," Kate holds up her left hand, palm out, and Claire can see a thin scar angled from her thumb to the top of her palm. "I still have it, actually." Reaching down the neck of her shirt, she pulls out a flat black square, tipping something sharp and silver and beautiful into her palm. "Not as sharp as it used to be," she passes it to Claire, who turns it over in her hand.

"Do you keep this in your bra?"

"Sometimes my shoes. You never know when you're going to need a weapon."

"That's a little disturbing."

"I lead a very odd life, Claire."

"That I see. That I see."

She twists the star so it catches the light from that godawful billboard. Its surface is lightly scratched, and on second look isn't so shiny, worn to a dull patina, lending it a softness that you wouldn't expect from something that has drawn blood.

"So, what--you get held at gunpoint and decide to be a superhero?"

"No," she wraps her hands around her feet, gazing out the window, chin on her knees. "I decided to be a superhero because some things happen, and you can let them destroy you, or you can let them temper you, make you stronger, so that you can try and stop it from ever happening again. There are some things nobody should have to go through." She finally looks up, her eyes boring into Claire's. "So when I ask you if you're okay," she trails off, shrugs. "I've been there."

What do you say to that?

"You really didn't just accidentally stumble across Matt at the docks one night, did you?" Claire weighs the star in her palm for a moment before passing it back to Kate.

"I keep saying that. He saved a girl in my building, for real. I thought, maybe a man like that needs help. Maybe I should help him. I've spent the last few years fighting aliens and corporations and she told me about that night and," she unfolds herself, feet on the couch cushions, twisting the star by a tip in her fingers. "And I guess I remembered why I started on this path."

"Aliens? Wait, you didn't fight in the Battle of New York, did you?"

"Oh, come on. Of course I did. My whole team did. Got our asses chewed out by the Director of SHIELD, too. Among other things," her face closes and she curls in on herself, just a little, like she's hurting. "We went our separate ways for a while. I had to take care of Hawkeye, he was--really, really fucked up afterwards. We've gotten back together to do some stuff since then--aliens, space. I went to California for a while."

"You say all that like it's no big deal."

"Normal is relative, Claire."

"Thank you," she moves to sit on the couch, curling into the corner. "For sharing with me. For staying. I know you've got your own life, and work."

"I don't mind."

"Well, thanks anyway." Claire stifles a yawn.

"My _pauk sestra_ used to say that just because someone puts other people back together, doesn't mean that they can--or _should--_ put themselves back together. I'm just taking her advice."

"Sounds smart."

"She is. You should meet her. She'd like you."

"Okay," Claire's eyes feel heavy, so she closes them. "Maybe later?"

"Sure thing, Claire. Go to sleep. You're safe."

"Thanks, Hawkeye," Claire mumbles, letting her tired, worn-out body call the shot, falling asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I did Kate justice? 
> 
> I like to think that Derek Bishop isn't a hardcore criminal, but he does some shady things that wind up having unpleasant consequences.
> 
> Nostalgic!Kate makes her first appearance.  
> Kate knows they're called shuriken, but they belonged to Patriot, and I think it would just be a shame to not call Patriot's shuriken throwing stars all the time. Maybe at one point he tried a javelin and Kate and Billy were like "It's a throwing STRIPE! Throwing STARS AND STRIPES!"


	9. Not a Bishop So Much as a Rook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Widow’s Rules #5 If you’re in a situation where death, capture, or dismemberment is eminent, and you don’t have a plan, don’t argue with the person who has one.  
> Hawkeye Corollary: If you’re the one who makes the plans, then make sure to plan for everything.  
> Hawkeye Squared Addendum: The plan never includes you dying, so don't even ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on some shorts about what Kate does when we don't see her (This Is What Kate Bishop Does When She's Not Being A P.I.), but for now: Kamala is sort of interning for Kate, and part of that includes training, which is why Kate's in Jersey.
> 
> In chess, a rook is considered a more valuable piece than a bishop (more mobility). The bishop is known as a long-range piece. Did you know that? OH THE IRONY. Cue lots of chess puns.

Kate gets a series of frantic texts from Clint and Natasha, among others, saying something to the effect of _bombs in hk_ and _r u ok?_

The texts are unnecessary. because of _course_ Kate's in Jersey, patrolling with Kamala tonight, and she can see the smoke from here.

She hustles Kamala home, tells her to stay in and lock everything and _do not go out or you will lose your stipend and I will sic Captain America on you are we clear_.

She tries to call Matt, and of course, of-fucking-course, he doesn't answer. Mrs. O does, though, frantic and lapsing into Russian. Kate tells her to lock everything up, and stay inside. "It's going to be fine," she says.

Kate takes a deep breath. _You will contain your rage until you know Murdock is safe. You will keep it together for four hours._

 _Go_.

. 

“Billy?’ Kate can still see smoke, and if she gets at the right angle, fire. “Babe, sorry to bother you. But I need a favor.”

“Does this favor have to do with bombs going off in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Yes. Sort of. I don’t—look, I just need you to BAMF me back. I didn’t drive, and I don’t think I’m gonna be able to get a cab.”

“This have to do with the guy you've been teaming up with?"

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s up to his ass in trouble. I don’t need you to stay, I just need a li—“ Billy appears next to her—“ft. Thanks.” She hangs up.

“Ready to go?”

“Yup,” Kate takes his arm.

“Where should I drop you?”

“My apartment, thanks Billy.”

“ _Kate’s apartment Kate’s apartment Kate’s apartment,”_ Billy chants, engulfing them in blue light until they pop into Kate’s apartment.

“That’s so handy. I can never get over it.”

“Be safe, Hawkeye,” Billy wraps her in a hug. “You don't even know what the hell is going on out there. Sure you don’t need help?”

“Nope,” Kate grins. “But I’ll be fine. Go, go study and be brilliant. This isn't your problem, okay?”

“ _You're_ my problem. You're sure?"

"Billy. The last thing I need is to have to worry about you, too. Go home. I want you safe, not dodging dirty cops." 

"So you want to dodge dirty cops in a warzone _alone?_ That's-"

"Billy," she interrupts him, calm and firm and _I lead this team do not cross me._ "Go home."

He stares at her and Kate can feel those precious seconds ticking past, when he nods.

"Okay. Okay. Call me when it's done,” he tells her, stern frown creasing his face. "Don't do anything stupid."

“Will do.” She grins at him.

He squeezes her shoulders before chanting _home, home, home,_ and disappearing.

Kate’s smile drops as soon as he’s gone. “Okay, Murdock. Where the hell are you?” She debates taking her bow with her for the half-second it takes her to yank on a pair of loose pants over her crime-fighting leggings, before deciding that explaining a bow to first responders is an obstacle she doesn't need to deal with, as much as it kills her to shove it under her couch.

She snags her frequency scanner and one of her special emergency duffels on her way out, slinging it over her back and at the last minute tossing her helmet on the couch, deeming it too conspicuous for sneaking and rescuing.

She's going to end the night with a concussion. She can feel it.

She knocks on the door of every occupied apartment on her way out, telling her tenants to stay in for the next day or two, to call Mr. Clint if they need anything, and that she's going out to see if she can help. Mrs. Liu eyes her purple outfit and the bag across her back with something like resigned disappointment. " _You_ be safe," she half-scolds. "We are fine. But you," she pats Kate's cheek. "You stay safe." She _glares_ at Kate as she says it, and honestly Kate needs to take lessons from Mrs. L and Mrs. O because their slightly-overbearing mother-henning is terrifying. She holds on to Kate until she nods.

"I'll try. Make sure nobody does anything stupid, Mrs. L," Kate calls from the stairwell. "Thanks!"

The front door closes slowly enough that Kate can hear her _You are the only one doing stupid--_

Everyone's a critic.

Kate keeps one eye on her surroundings and the other on the news feeds she’s scrolling through on her phone as she makes her way down the empty streets, keeping to the shadows as much as possible when her phone vibrates in her hand.

She's going to ignore it but--

It's Claire.

"This isn't a good time."

"So I've been told," Claire's voice is curt, false bravado covering up something wobbly and scared. "Are you with Matt?"

"Not yet. Trying to find him. I can't imagine he did this but I can't imagine he's not in the middle of it-" Kate grinds her teeth and only stops when her jaw starts to hurt. Matt Murdock isn't a Lawyer, he's a Liar. He _told_ her he wouldn't do anything stupid without asking for help, he _told her_ he wouldn't go rushing in headfirst, and he _knew_ tonight was her night to patrol in Jersey--

"He is, he's got _Vladimir_ with him-"

"The fucker who had you kidnapped?" Kate tries and almost succeeds at not growling. 

" _I know, right?_ " Claire's voice cracks. "I just-I mean-Hawkeye, he's out there with a shot-up crazy Russian and I don't see this ending well."

"Did he call you? How do you know this?"

"He needed help stabilizing Vladimir."

Kate muffles her phone against her shoulder for just enough time to say "Sonofabitch," before continuing with Claire. "It's going to be fine. Are you safe?"

"At the hospital. All hands on deck."

"Good, they're going to need you from what I'm seeing. Do you have something to write down a number?"

"Gimmie a sec-okay. What?"

"I'm giving you a friend's number. Her name is Natasha. When you're ready to leave the hospital, I'd like you to call her and have her take you home. She knows how to navigate...this." Kate rattles off the number and hopes Tasha isn't mad about it and doesn't sneak into her apartment at five AM to make a point about sharing personal information. "Stay safe. Be smart. Call you when it's done." Kate hangs up. 

The city is in a panic-people being encouraged to stay in their homes, hospitals practically overflowing, five separate locations destroyed, reasons unknown-at least to the media. The addresses rolling across her screen are Russsian holdings; she and Matt have been to three of them. This isn't random, this is a hit. A large-scale hit, sure, but a hit all the same.

There's the odd feed that keeps assuring people that the attacks are most certainly _not_ alien in nature, which might be funny in any other city but this one. It might also be funny if Kate wasn't actually having flashbacks to the Battle of New York, reliving aliens and buildings falling down and pain and blood all over her hands-

_Three hours. Keep it together._

She takes ten seconds to shove the memories to the back of her mind so she can freak out _later_ when she's not tracking a blind vigilante.

From what she can tell, the cops and fire departments have the destruction mostly under control—but there’s a standoff happening at an abandoned warehouse. They’re reporting a masked man holding a cop and a civilian hostage. It's like the start of a bad joke: a blind vigilante lawyer, a Russian mobster, and a cop walk into a bar.

Deep breath. Focus.

A hostage situation means the whole block is cordoned off, maybe more. Cops, news teams, potentially whatever's left of the Russians or, more than likely, whoever _actually_ did this to them. Kate alters her course so she’s not headed directly to the building-no need to tangle with trouble when you can overshoot it-and starts scanning radio frequencies.

She's on what seems to be an empty channel when she hears someone very much not a cop _Hello?_ the voice is deep and rough, repeating, _are you there? can you hear me? I'd like to speak to the man in the mask._

Well. Fuck. She hopes Matt can't hear-he's smart enough not to engage, right?

Wrong.

Well, he is a lawyer. Verbally sparring with people is his day job but this is _not the time._

It takes everything in her, every last bit of self-restraint she has left to not barge headfirst into that clusterfuck. She wishes Matt could hear thoughts as well as he hears the whole damn city so he would know to _shut the fuck up shut the fuck up SHUT THE FUCK UP_ but of course they can't be that lucky. She's going to kill him once she's got him safe, right after she tells him to _never try to reason with crazy_.

At least now they have an idea of what's making this guy tick, what his endgame is-but Matt still won't shut up, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he'd better be stalling, trying to figure a way to get out because she thinks--the way Fisk talks--that he's stalling, but what's the play?

 _They will burn you in effigy_ Fisk says, and she hears the shots echo through the streets one-two-three.

Three shots: measured and steady--a sniper, then, not some trigger-happy close-range shootout. She itches to take to the rooftops, wanting the better vantage point, wanting to try and apprehend them. If they're any kind of pro, though, they're gone by now, the cops probably combing the tops of the surrounding buildings-- Kate starts scanning frequencies again, starts scanning the news--oh, look. Security footage of Matt.

_Masked man, holding a civilian and a cop hostage, shot three cops, part of a feud with the Russian mob--_

Does nobody understand how being a sniper _works_? Do they think he has an accomplice? You can't shoot people from a roof across the street and still be _in_ the warehouse. Is nobody paying attention? Entry wound, exit wound, is nobody paying attention?

It takes her maybe ten seconds to realize that technically, _she_ is his accomplice, and that having a sniper might very well be deliberate. Fisk hadn't said anything about it, hadn't mentioned any knowledge of a secondary player, but--

The cops are getting ready to move in, and Kate hopes Matt is listening, hopes he knows that he can’t escape up. He can’t go up, he can’t go out, which means that if she doesn’t hear about his dead body being pulled from rubble, he’s got to go down.

Kate hasn't prayed in a long time, not since a while after the Battle of New York, but still she thinks, _please, God, don't let this moron die on my watch._ She doesn't have her bow, but she asks Saint George and Saint Sebastian to keep an eye on him, all the saints that protect blind people because if ever there was a blind guy with a death wish, it's this one. _Keep him alive. Keep him alive. Keep him alive._

.

Someone--Loki, Thor, St. Jude, who even knows, must be looking out for them, because Kate sees him, Kate guesses right about where he's going to come up.

She doesn’t know how to get his attention without him throwing a punch, so she makes a sort of _whistle-fwit_ noise and hisses, “Hey, dumbass!”

He turns to her, ready to fight, head cocked to the side as he takes a deep breath. She can’t see his face right now, since she’s sure it would be pathetic and bruised, and given the way he’s limping and holding his side, rife with misery and pain, and really, really pissed off.

“So, that Fisk guy is a dick,” she hisses from behind her dumpster as he limps towards her. “You need to learn the fine art of not showing your hand; get _over here_.”

“Yeah,” his jaw clenches. “I noticed. How did--? _”_ Kate doesn’t need to see his whole face to know he would be glaring at her, that his jaw is still clenched, that his frown has invaded his forehead.

“I have a radio frequency scanner, now come _here_ ,” she repeats, dragging him into the nook created by the side of the dumpster and a brick wall, swinging the duffel around and unzipping it. “We need to get you out of here, preferably without getting arrested or shot, or arrested and _then_ shot. I think my place might be easier to get to--how close are we to your place?”

“A few blocks.”

“Okay, your place, then.”

“There are,” he stops, tilts his head to the side. “Thirty cops, three news vans, and dozens of civilians between us and my apartment. And five men headed our way—“

Kate groans and drops her bag. “Try not to die, I don’t want to have to figure out what to do with your corpse.” And then the men are on them.

They're dressed like SWAT but they aren't; little details like pocket placement and the make of their weapons--hired muscle, then. Yay.

She manages to take the first one out with a single blow from her staves, and Matt’s literally kicking the asses of the last two guys. Guy Two lands a few punches; busting her lip before Kate knees him in the groin, uses her lower center of gravity to fling him over her shoulder and then uses Guy One’s prone form as a stepping stool to get her thighs around Guy Three’s neck, squeezing until he passes out.

“Here,” she rummages in the duffel, not even pausing as she kicks Guy Two in the face when he stirs. He's probably given her a black eye, he deserves it. “Mask off, mask off _now_.” She thrusts a long-sleeved henley at him—navy, but they can worry about clashing black and blue later. “Put it on.”

“What? Why?” He asks, but starts pulling it on anyway.

“We have to get past cops and civilians and news crews, and you’re not doing it as the masked man that over half of this city now wants to kill, okay? Or do you have an escape plan?"

"The rooftops," he grits out.

Adorable.

"That man just bombed five places at the same time. He's got half of the force in his pocket, maybe more, maybe even the news crews judging by how this is being reported, and your plan is to stay in the shadows and hope for the best? That's not a plan."

"And your plan is what, to give me a wardrobe change?"

"That is _part_ of the plan. You _don't_ have a plan. I do. So put on what I tell you to.” He stops, shirt halfway down his chest, to cock his head at her. His position and the dim light from the streetlamps highlights just how badly he’s been banged up, angry red gashes visible through the holes in his shirt.

“Why?” he says again as Kate uselessly rolls her eyes and steps on a few guys to tug the shirt down herself.

“It’s a disguise, you dumbass, now _put it on_.”

“I don’t think a shirt is going to cover up my beaten _face_ ,” he points out as Kate zips him into a hoodie that might be purple and might also be Clint’s.

“Hey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Hell’s Kitchen just got blown half to kingdom come, I think we can lie our way out of a few injuries.” She kneels down and starts to tug his pants out of his boots. “Mask off, man, how are we going to explain this if you still have it on?”

“What—“ he shifts, unbalanced as she yanks on his pants. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to make your kick-ass boots less noticeable, okay?” She looks up at a now mask-less Matt, who looks like he might have a shiner and a few cuts, but nothing that will be inexplicable should they get questioned. Fuck, for him, this is practically pristine condition.

“Ah, uh-huh, and how are you planning on making a blind guy walking around Hell’s Kitchen at night less noticeable?”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Kate scoffs. “I mean, sunglasses would help, would make that shiner less noticeable, but—“

“The guy you strangled with your thighs,” he interrupts. “His left-hand inside jacket pocket.”

“Such a useful skill,” Kate muses as she digs around, procuring promised sunnies. “Oh, hey, Ray-Bans, nice.” She slaps them into Matt’s hand before slipping off some of her body armor and trading it for a worn, brown leather jacket. “Mask?” she holds her hand out and Matt only hesitates for a second before giving it to her. “Cane,” she says, replacing the mask with a collapsible cane.

“Hawkeye,” Matt says as his hands tighten around it—one of his, she thinks he can tell. “Why in the name of God do you have one of my canes?”

“Well, you threw it into an alley to do parkour. I figured there might come a time when you would want it back.” He still looks—not horrified, exactly, but something close—as he twists the pieces to full length. “Please. I have emergency ‘my friend is a dumbass’ duffels for, like, nine people.” She shoves his mask between her shirt and her skin, tucking said shirt into her pants, which garners her another odd look. “If they decide to strip-search us, we’ve got an entirely different set of problems, okay? I’d rather not explain a currently very iconic black mask should someone decide to look in my bag. I’ll wash it, whatever, come on.” She takes his arm and steers him to the mouth of the alley.

“What do we say if someone asks what we were doing? We were walking? On a date? What?”

“Yes, date, good. You're getting it. And, what, we took a walk, things went boom. We got knocked around. If anyone gets nosey, I’ll cry. Remember, if you're uncomfortable, make them feel uncomfortable, too. Trust me. ”

“Okay,” Matt nods, and Kate can feel his deep inhale and the wince that follows it more than she can see it. He shakes his arm out of her hand and takes her elbow. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your best friend is Hawkeye, why would you not have emergency duffels? Kate's probably got a lockbox of fake IDs, too. 
> 
> Also, Everyone Is Catholic and I don't know why. St. Sebastian and St. George are patron saints of archery; St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes and desperate situations. 
> 
> I also have Very Strong Feelings about Kate knowing the Leverage crew, if you watch that. The "if you're uncomfortable make them uncomfortable" line is paraphrased from an episode.


	10. Not a Rook So Much as a Rookery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some birds don't take well to cages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PTSD and panic attacks make their first appearance, just in case you think this might be triggering.  
> Other than that:
> 
> Platonic bedsharing! Grilled cheese! The rare opportunity to throw money at a problem!
> 
> NO APOLOGIES!

Matt counts it as a miracle that they only get stopped twice on their way to his apartment-by cops who take a look at them and just wave them past. It's given him a whole different level of respect for Kate, who is currently-

Collapsing in a heap in his entryway.

"Kate? What's wrong, are you hurt?" (not that he can tell; just some bruises and a split lip, a few scrapes)

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me after that stunt you just pulled," she snaps, and the sentence is so out of character that it pulls him up short. "I will beat the everloving shit out of you for this, Murdock, don't think I won't. I'm so pissed at you I can barely stand it. You could have died tonight, do you get that? If you'd been in one of those warehouses when the bombs went off--if you'd been a minute slower getting out of the warehouse--do you think I'm fucking with you when I say don't go in alone? Do you want to bleed out on the streets of Hell's Kitchen? Is that what you want, because I'd like to know now before I keep trying to keep you from doing that."

She is angry, but there's something else there, under the anger, something that runs a faint tremor through her body (not the familiar, feathery kind--something that seems more like corralling an instinct of flight-or-fight once he takes a minute to really examine it).

"Kate? Are you all right--"

"I'm _fine,"_ she snaps, tucking her hands under her arms. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I just--" she sits up, curling in on herself, tucking her knees up to her chest and covering her head with her arms. (she's just starting to hyperventilate, rocking back and forth, hands over her ears like she can hear something he can't which is probably impossible unless she can hear thoughts; all of a sudden her body just _slams_ into fight mode, but she doesn't move--her pulse and heartbeat are going haywire, he can practically smell all the adrenaline her body is pumping out)

"Kate," he says as one of her hands punches into the floor. " _Kate_ ," the other one comes down, almost like she's prepping to launch herself across the room, and he crouches next to her, unsure if he should touch her or if that will push her farther into panic, or if she'll see it as an attack.

A minute passes before he finally decides to risk putting a hand over hers-ostensibly to more easily block any punches she might decide to throw. The touch startles her, but also seems to jolt her out of whatever or wherever she is. Her pulse starts to slow, her whole body relaxing in increments, almost like someone's turning a dial and each notch takes away a little more tension.

"Wow," she breath shudders out of her (she grips his hand like it's a lifeline, her palm clammy against his) "That hasn't happened in a while. Sorry. Sorry."

Of all the things she's said in the past few hours, this has got to be the most ridiculous.

"Why are you apologizing for panic attacks? It's not like you can control it. Do you need anything?"

"I don't know," and she sounds more fragile than he's ever heard her--and since he's never heard her sound vulnerable, that's more than a little unnerving (she just hustled him out of a crime scene crawling with cops, media, and terrified civilians without so much as a nervous breath and now she's shivering in his apartment and it's very much not okay). She laughs a little, almost as if she knows what he's thinking and wants to try to negate any ideas he has about her being vulnerable. "Oddly enough, a city on fire and panic in the streets is a little triggering."

"You okay if I touch you?"

"What? Oh, sorry, I'm holding your hand. Um. I don't think I can let go, unless you need me too."

"No, I was just--," he remembers being a kid, scared from a night terror, right after the accident, mostly, and his dad would come in and rub his back. So that's what he does, letting his hand sink slowly through the air so it's not a surprise when he puts his hand between her shoulder blades, keeping his palm flat and the strokes firm but not hard along the length of her spine. "Keep breathing," he reminds her. "It's good for you."

Her laugh is shaky but at least it's there.

"See? breathing. Better than not-breathing."

Her shoulders loosen and her grip on his hand relaxes.

"Sorry," she says again. 

"Stop apologizing."

"Okay." she breathes in (to a four-count; not her first time having this happen, probably; Matt can feel her pulse slow) "I _am_ sorry, though. I feel like maybe I was rude to you."

"You're on a sorry-embargo for the next twelve hours. And you're always rude, so I'm used to it."

Her breathing changes as her jaw drops. "Oh my _God,_ you're the _worst_ ," she finally says.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about."

 "Well, it's not my fault that you refuse to listen. Oddly enough, I'd prefer you alive rather than dead. Shocking, I know." Her tone is light but there's something--in her heartbeat, in her pulse--that undermines the confidence.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Please stop acting all nice. It's making it hard for me to stay pissed at you."

"First of all, I'm not acting nice. I _am_ nice," (she scoffs at that). "Second of all, you are sort of terrifying when you're angry, so you not being angry at me is going to be a personal goal from now on." She _hmms_ at that, sitting quietly for a moment or two, his hand still rubbing up and down her back. "Thank you. For coming to get me."

"Anytime."

"Doing better?"

"Yeah, I guess. I've kind of been having flashbacks all night. This is just the first chance I've had to--freak out, I guess?" she says in a rush, almost like she's got to force the words out or she won't say them.

"Flashbacks to what, if you don't mind my asking?"

Kate takes a few more slow, even breaths, the sound of her pressing against his ears, muffling the cacophony of the rest of the city.

"Battle of New York," the words blur together and she sways a little into him, her body finally relaxing. "Tell you some other time?"

"It's a deal."

Her breathing is the loudest thing in the apartment, the deep, even gusts of it blowing across his neck.

"You know what sounds good?" she mumbles. "Sleep. Let's do that."

Matt shifts against her, trying to ease the stiffness that's settled into his exhausted body. "Let me make up the bed for you."

"A-ha- _ha_ -ha," she says without any real bite. "I am taking the couch so I can hear if you try and sneak out to go after Fisk."

"My couch is not all that comfortable to sleep on."

"It's not like I have cooties," she grumbles. "We're adults. Unless you don't want to, which is fine."

"C'mon," he slings her arm over his shoulder and pulls her up. "I thought birds roosted?"

"Oh, wow, I've never heard that one before," exhaustion has robbed her of her customary sarcastic bite. "So funny, Mr. Lawyerman."

.

“Kate. _Kate,_ ” Matt shakes his foot loose (Kate had it clamped between her ankles so apparently she wasn't kidding when she'd said she wanted to sleep next to him to make sure he didn't swing out the window to go find Fisk) and then aims a kick to the back of her calf. “Kate, your phone.”

There’s a sleepy grumble behind him.

“ _Kate_.”

She goes from zero to sixty in half a second, rolling out of the bed to land in a crouch. Her heartbeat is racing and Matt thinks she probably forgot where she was.

“Kate, it’s just me.” He doesn’t bother getting up, can hear her heartbeat start to slow on its own. “You stayed over.”

“Right,” she takes a few deep breaths, rubs her face, sighs. “Now where the fuck is my phone?”

“You kicked it under the bed. About a foot in front of you.”

Another sigh as she reaches for it and snags it.

“Fuck,” she taps the screen a few times. “Hey, Kamala. No. Absolutely not. I don’t want you coming in for a least a week, okay? I might give you some stuff to do from home, and if I need you I’ll call, okay? Can do. Stay safe. Bye.”

“Worried about you?”

“I was patrolling with her when we saw the explosions. She says she hopes you’re all right, don’t know if you were listening.”

“Not really. I’m trying not to eavesdrop.”

“Right,” she doesn’t sound like she really believes him as she lifts the phone back to her ear. "Billy. I'm safe. No. What? No. Yeah. Thanks. You too. Love you. Bye."

"Boyfriend?"

"He's my gay husband, mind your own business."

He swallows whatever he was going to respond with as she tap-tap-taps a few more times. “Well, I’m popular. Should you let Foggy and Karen know you’re okay? Maybe? You know, so they aren’t worried sick about you, because I’ve got like five texts from Foggy and three from Karen asking about you. Jesus,” she says, more to herself. “God bless the mass text, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Other-Hawkeye? Clint, right?”

“Among others. The rest of my team, some friends, Jess, blah blah blah, are you going to call Foggy? Or since I’m here and already texting do you want me to do it?”

“And tell him what, exactly?”

“I was thinking, ‘hey pal, I was just trying to interrogate Russians when someone decided to wipe them off the map but I’m totes fine’. Yeah?”

“No, I meant more ‘how are you going to explain you sending texts for me’. Smartass.”

“Why do I have to come up with it?” she crawls back into his bed, her warm bulk oddly comforting (he shouldn’t be comforted by her, she shouldn’t be here, what the hell is happening to his life?) “It’s five AM I’m _done_ coming up with stuff.” She falls silent as she wriggles into what Matt assumes is a comfortable position. “Maybe we were talking shop.”

“That—yes. We were talking work stuff. That case you’ve been working.”

“Which one?”

“The protection racket with the Thai fusion restaurant.”

“Oh. Nice. Wait, how do you—“ he can feel her shake her head as she starts to text. “Never mind. I need to remember to never let my shadier friends come to my office.”

“Shadier friends? Do you have any other kind?”

“That is rude.”

“It’s true though.”

Her phone buzzes.

“Foggy wants me to yell at you, but I’m too tired to. Also, he says you guys should probably not go into the office today. Also, Karen is texting me that they are at the hospital—“

“What?”

“And _not_ to be stupid and come, Foggy just got sliced up by a shard of glass—he’s getting released in like a few hours, but neither of them want you wandering the streets right now, not even with me.”

“Jesus.”                                                              

“I get the impression they don’t trust me. Also, Foggy keeps saying he’s fine. He’ll call when Karen gets him home. And yell at you then, I presume. Relax,” she says, kicking her feet at his, like she can feel the tension rolling off of him in waves. “If he wasn’t fine Karen would have said. And they’re right, the less we’re all out and about in the next day or two, the better." 

He takes a deep breath in, releases it slowly. It’s going to be fine. Between Karen and Kate, he and Foggy are being looked out for by two of the most aggressively competent people he knows. It's going to be fine.

“I’m really not the shadiest person you know?” He asks once his muscles aren’t locked up, once he's curbed his instinct to rush into the fray.

“Hmm,” she hums sleepily as she scoots closer so they’re back to back. “I’m friends with at least one mercenary, one former mercenary, and an occasional assassin, a few professional thieves, and a guy who pretends to be a psychic detective. Among other things. So, no. Not even close.”

“Good to know,” Matt says, and the feeling of her ribs and spine pressing against his with each of her breaths is, eventually, enough to lull him to sleep.

.

Matt is cooking by the time Kate wakes up for the second time.

“They’re asking people to stay home for the next day, if they can,” he calls across his apartment. “So unless you feel like dodging cops with that slightly suspicious bag of stuff, you’re stuck here.”

She stretches before responding, a grunt screeching out of her throat as she reaches for the ceiling, several of her vertebrae popping. “You okay with that?”

“I’m making you food, aren’t I?”

She’s at his elbow in a flash. “Food?”

“Sure,” he slides the sandwich from the pan to a plate, slices it neatly into triangles. “Grilled cheese?”

“I love cheese,” she sounds almost reverent and Matt suspects she is staring at the plate.

“It’s nothing fancy, here, this one’s yours.”

“When you were in school, did they ever serve grilled cheese with tomato soup?” she says around a mouthful of food. “Weird combo, you know, but it _works._ Chili and cinnamon rolls, not so much.”

“Chili and cinnamon rolls sounds awful,” he agrees as he slides another un-grilled cheese into the pan. “I don’t remember ever eating tomato soup and grilled cheese, but I’ve always been sort of particular about food, so.”

“Yeah, man, this cheese is awesome,” Kate starts on the second half of her sandwich. “You used fancy butter, too, didn’t you? Jeez. We should go visit local farmers and shit, I’ve got a car, we should do that,” she rattles off, polishing off her grilled cheese.

He can still hear her stomach grumbling. “When was the last time you ate, anyway?”

“Lunch. Yesterday.”

Matt sighs and starts putting together two more sandwiches. “We’re going to run out of food.”

“I lead a very active lifestyle,” she says primly as she hops up on the counter. “So do you, for that matter. Are you eating enough? I’m going to bring you some organic grass-fed beef and stuff. Do you think you’d like that? Do you like beef?”

“Kate, tell me the truth. Did you do speed in my bathroom just now?”

“What? No. Why?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“You’re all over the place.”

“Oh. No? I’m fine. Just feel really energized. And hungry. And bored. I slept really well. You have a great bed. Maybe that’s it.”

She holds herself silent and still until the second sandwich comes out of the pan, holding her plate as he slides it off the spatula, lets him slice it again.

"Here, eat half while yours is cooking," she waves the plate at him.

Her heels drum against the cabinet doors as they share the sandwich, and he wants to tell her to go eat at the table like a civilized person but somehow never does.

.

“Kate. I’m trying to meditate. Can you stop?”

“Oh! Sorry. Sure.”

She manages to sit still for all of a minute and a half before she’s up again, bounding up the stairs to the upper portion of his apartment and—

Jumping over to swing herself onto one of the exposed support beams.

She still doesn’t settle, does what Matt surmises is a backbend _on the beam_ before Matt interrupts her again. “Kate, how am I going to explain you falling to your death?”

“I’m not gonna _fall_ ,” she scoffs, pulling her feet back into the air before landing them in front of her again, standing upright. “Three years of gymnastics. This is like three times wider than a balance beam, I think I’ll be okay.”

She does a pirouette on it as if to prove the point.

“Gymnastics?” Matt doesn’t bother to keep the disbelief out of his voice as she lays out, back flat against the beam, one of her legs dangling off the side.

“Yup. Three years of gymnastics, charm school, ballet, cello lessons, voice lessons, tap, ballroom, archery, fencing, horseback riding, you know. That sort of stuff. Until I was old enough to say that I didn’t want to do all of it.”

“Wow,” Matt is a little impressed. “That sounds overwhelming.”

“Oh, it was.” She rolls back into a sitting position, braced against a crosspiece. “But I learned some useful stuff, you know.”

The following silence gives Matt a chance to focus on his breathing, on how his body feels—battered and bruised—the way his blood thrums through his veins, the way his bones shift as air rushes into his body, the measured breaths above him and a slow, steady heartbeat that—

“Kate, what are you doing?”

“I thought you were trying to meditate.”

“I am. What are you doing?”

“Uh. Why?”

“Because your heartbeat and breathing changed. Slow, steady. Like when we’re---out. At night,” he finishes a little lamely, unsure of the best way to say, ‘when we fight crime at night and you shoot people from tall structures’.

“Oh, um, I was checking sightlines. And guarding, I guess? Watching? There’s no non-creepy way to say that.”

“Guarding me?”

“What, it’s not like I don’t do it on a regular basis,” she sounds defensive.

“No, I didn’t mean—it’s fine. It’s—thank you.”

“Oh,” she sounds taken aback, but in a good way, he thinks. “You’re—welcome,” it’s oddly stilted, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “You could totally stick a spare bow and a smallish quiver up here, by the way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he can’t quite help the smile that spreads across his features as they both fall silent again, as he meditates and Kate enters whatever Hawkeye-headspace she has that means she’ll never miss a shot, that means she’s got your back, that means she’s calm and collected. Maybe shooting is her meditation.

He lets the thought drift out of his mind, becomes nothing but his breathing.

But the smile stays.

,

"What do you mean, you never finished the Harry Potter series?" Kate's voice cuts through the air as she scrambles eggs. "I would ask you if you're an alien, but I know aliens who _inhaled_ those books. Are you serious?"

"I couldn't afford them when they came out," he shrugs.

"Take over," Kate thrusts the spatula at him. "I'm hijacking your computer."

He scrapes the eggs off the bottom of the pan as she tap-taps at his keyboard. "What are you looking for?"

"None of your business," she snaps, and he refrains from pointing out that she's using his computer, so it sort of is his business. "Are you _kidding_ me?" bursts out of her. "You mean to tell me if you wanted a _print_ version of, like, Dracula, you wouldn't be able to get it? Where's Les Mis, you need to read Les Mis, what the hell is this--" she trails off. "You mean to tell me if you wanted to read Harry Potter--actually read it, not have it read to you--you'd have to spend _over_ eight hundred dollars? Is that right? Oh my God, I have never been so offended in my _life_."

Matt's not sure why this is offensive to _her_ , only that her shoulders creep closer and closer to her ears as the minute wear on and she clicks from page to page, that the muscles in her neck get tighter, that she keeps clenching her jaw, and that the manner in which she's using his laptop gets more and more aggressive as the minutes tick past.

"Kate?" he finally breaks the silence, "Eggs are done."

She shuts his computer with a sigh but doesn't speak as she portions out the eggs onto two plates or as she hops back up on the counter (like a cat, the thought crosses his mind), doesn't say _anything_ until she's eaten a few bites.

"Did you have trouble getting materials for your classes?" is what she finally says.

"Sometimes," he shrugs, not even surprised by her lack of subtlety at this point. "Text-to-speech apps are useful, audio books for things like Harry Potter," he shrugs. "I have options."

"But do you like books? I mean, do you prefer them? Having something solid and paper and, you know, book-like?"

"I like them, of course I like them. It's just not practical. Books in braille take up a lot more space and cost more, which you saw."

Kate's response is a very strange, pained noise that sounds a little like someone's punched her in the throat. She seems like she's getting ready to say something when her phone buzzes. "I've got to take this. Excuse me."

She ducks out of his apartment, which is cute since she knows he can still hear her. He debates not listening for a second, and rules in favor of eavesdropping.

"Hi, Rich. No, of course he's not. I _know_ I'm not supposed to--look, you got the email, right? Just look into it. Start putting it together. If he asks, just tell him I told you to do it. No. Dude, no. Spare no expense. No, that would be great. Competitive? No, bro, have you looked at those statistics? _Throw money_ at them, screw being competitive. If the board asks, tell them--tell them we're creating jobs and potentially getting _legal_ throwback from the government. And can you look into starting a scholarship for that program? Okay. Thank you. Smoochies! You're the best."

"Do I even want to know what that was?" he calls as she comes back in.

"Probably not?" she jogs a few steps and slides on her socks into the kitchen. "It might have involved blackmail. And corporate espionage. No. Corporate mutiny, that sounds better, right? Like a hostile takeover but cooler. As my lawyer, I want you to know these things."

"I'm not _your_ lawyer," he points out as she resumes sitting on his counter like she's got a vendetta against the table.

"Wow, ow, that hurts," she clutches at her heart. "After all I've done for you?"

"Eaten all my food?" Matt says, then sighs, resigning himself that they're not going to eat at his perfectly good table, pulling himself on to the counter next to her.

"Hmph," Kate says, stealing a piece of toast off his plate. "Sharing is caring."

He tries not to grin too much at her.

Going by the way she knocks her feet against his, he fails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened here. I don't even know.  
> ANYWAY  
> How have I not thanked you all for reading? Well, thank you! You're all awesome and your comments have made my day several times now. YOU'RE ALL SO LOVELY I CAN HARDLY STAND IT.  
> We are:  
> still not beta'ed.  
> aware of the weird pacing issues that happened here and  
> forgetting to tell you something. wish I could remember what it was!  
> Also:  
> Kate canonically knows so many criminals, it's weird. I added a few non-canon ones anyway.  
> Is chili and cinnamon rolls a regional combo?  
> With the website I was looking at, that price is actually pretty low for braille copies of Harry Potter, and doesn't include shipping.  
> I like to think that, while Kate will not accept any money from her father personally, she will absolutely blackmail him into putting that money in good places. Like, really. Bishop PUBLISHING? Yeah, Kate absolutely called her dad's second-in-command and told him to start a braille publishing imprint/division. You will never convince me otherwise.


	11. At the Corner of Normal and Everyday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes manage to go a day without raining doom and destruction down on those who wish Hell's Kitchen ill. Weird, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, you guys, I'm so sorry this update took so long. I've had a very odd two weeks involving walking to work in 80+ degree heat, lots of doctors visits/calls and me having zero energy. Also, I've got like three other fics that are all screaming "look at me! look at me!" at the tops of their lungs. So if this seems a little unpolished, you're absolutely right. It is! I'm sorry.

“I think we should probably lie low for a week or so. At least a few days,” Matt pulls an earbud out as Kate slings her duffle over her shoulder.

The nice thing about hanging out with Matt is that she doesn’t ever have to suppress her eye-rolls.

“I think _you_ should definitely lay low for a while. _We_ are not laying low. I was not the one who had my ninja moves plastered all over the news.”

He glares in her general direction.

“You can aim that frowny face at yourself because I had nothing to do with that clusterfuck and you know it.”

It takes Kate a minute to realize she’s in a staring contest with a blind man and therefore is bound to lose.

“I’m not saying you _did_ ,” she takes the starring role of Mature Adult and breaks the silence. “But I’m also not saying you didn’t. See you at the office.”

He heaves a big sigh before replying “Stay safe out there.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head again, albeit a bit more fondly this time, as she leaves his apartment.

Only to find a very stone-faced Russian assassin glaring at her from across the street.

“How long have you been waiting there?” Kate calls, not crossing to her. “Please tell me you haven’t been waiting for me to leave for two days.”

Natasha shifts her weight and crosses her arms across her chest.

“Tasha, is everything okay? Is Clint okay?”

“Clint is fine,” she huffs. “You know, sometimes I actually forget that no Hawkeye has any common sense, because usually you act like a rational, reasonable human being. Then you do something stupid like this,” Natasha shakes her head and looks disappointed in a way that only Natasha does.

“I didn’t do anything stupid,” Kate protests.

Natasha does not dignify this with a response, but she does uncross her arms, which Kate takes as a sign that it is safe to stand next to her.

“So. What’s that about?” Tasha’s eyes flick up to Matt’s windows where the man himself takes a step back, out of sight. They’re really going to need to talk about the eavesdropping thing. Super-senses don’t excuse one from basic manners. “Isn’t he one of the lawyers across the hall from you? Kate, did you—“

“Hey, how about we walk and talk, I need to change and go catch, like, three cheating spouses in the Upper East Side.”

“Okay, fine,” Natasha allows Kate to loop their arms together. “But if something happened, please tell me first so I can lord it over Clint.”

“You do like doing that.”

“I do,” Natasha sighs. “But tell me. What’s up with the guy?”

“I don’t know? He’s a nice guy. An idiot, sometimes.”

“Matt, right? Claire said he was cute.”

“Cute?” Kate scoffs a little, earning her a curious look from Natasha.

“Is he not cute? Claire seemed pretty sure about that part.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess he’s cute, but I don’t think she’s paying enough attention to his ass if she led with cute and can we please stop talking about this?” she finishes in a rush because Tasha’s turned that _look_ on her that reminds Kate that she pries information out of people like some guys shuck oysters. “Nothing’s going on. We work together. End of story.”

“At best that’s the middle of the story.”

“He’s a dumbass with a death wish. End of story.”

“Oh,” the knowing look is back in her eyes, but it’s a different kind of knowing, one that makes Kate even more uncomfortable. “So what the hell happened here, Hawkeye?”

“A turf war on steroids? And the only faction we had ears in just got annihilated. Honestly, Tasha, it’s a goddamn mess here.”

“You know, if you need help—“

Kate pulls a face.

“I know you’re not going to ask for it, but we’re here, Clint and I, if you need us.”

“Yeah,” Kate ducks her head, bumps her shoulder against Tasha’s. “I know.”

“She wouldn’t want you to kill yourself for this place, Kate. She’d want you to ask for help if you needed it.”

“I don’t need help. I don't even know _how_ you'd help at this point.”

“Okay.” They walk in silence for another block. “So where does the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen fit in to all of this?”

"The who?"

"It's the name some reporters are throwing around for that guy in the black mask."

“More like the _dumbass_ of Hell's Kitchen," Kate says sourly. "He’s not a mad bomber, if that’s what you’re asking, not a terrorist.”

“I know _that_. He pulled Clint out of a dumpster once, too, so he’s at least occasionally helpful. I meant more along the lines of where does he fit in your grand scheme of not asking for help?”

“He doesn't help me.  _I_ help _him_. It’s a—a mutually beneficial relationship? A symbiotic one? Like those birds that ride around on the backs of those buffalo or whatever in Africa.”

"You and Clint don't get to watch Animal Planet anymore," Natasha says in the tone of a woman who has had to sit through one too many Dog Whisperer/My Cat From Hell binge-watches, and Kate laughs at her.

Natasha stops short and pulls Kate around to get a good look at her. “You seem like you’re doing better since you moved here. I’m glad. I wasn’t really sure.”

“Yeah, I think I’m doing okay.”

Natasha smiles at her then, a small little thing Kate secretly thinks of as the Momma Russian smile: it will cut you if you cross it but really wants nothing but the best for you.

“Next Saturday. I’m making Clint take us out for sushi. You’ll come pick me up at six.”

“Ma’am yes Ma’am.”

Natasha glares at her.

.

The job isn’t finding cheating spouses; it’s doing a security overhaul for a shitty little rundown office on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen.

Kate takes her client confidentiality very seriously, regardless of your status as a Russian spy.

It’s more than a little creepy from the outside—graffitied walls, grating over the windows—it looks sort of like the kind of place you’d dismantle dead bodies if you were a serial killer.

Once inside, the building reveals itself to be a modest sort of office and _not_ a human chop shop, complete with those soft-sided cubicle partitions, an ancient copier, and drop ceilings.

She mentally lays a grid over the place, straps on her tool belt, and starts combing the place for bugs.

There’s not a whole lot about being a PI that’s actually glamorous, not like in film noir with the great clothes and the great cars and the artfully filmed cigar smoke—and this is definitely one of those things that’s _not_ glamorous. Counter-surveillance usually involves a pretty solid amount of dust, air ducts—which is her favorite part, truth be told—taking apart office equipment, and, occasionally, destruction of property, which at best is messy and tedious, and at worst involves nasty little cuts all over your hands and getting pinched by plastic.

Five hours later, she’s covered in drywall dust, has no less than three cuts on her fingers, and has a dry burn on her forearm from the metal of the air duct. The remains of a printer and the guts of a copier are in a pile by the door, and she has a handful of listening and recording devices, found in: the copier (not the printer, though, that was just a false alarm), one of those partitions, the air duct, in a potted plant, and a camera from a vent. She also has the warring desires to know what, exactly, the Golden Palm Corporation is a front for as well as the desire to not have a moral crisis before she finishes the job and therefore gets paid. What the hell happens here that prompts this level of bugging for one shitty little office in Hell’s Kitchen that looks like a serial killer’s dream? She hopes it's good-guy stuff. She should probably ask Prodigy to look into this just to make sure she isn't missing something.

Kate stares at the probable thousands of dollars in tech in her hands.

She's definitely missing something.

.

“Anything new and exciting happen this morning?” Kate asks Kamala.

“Nope—well, Robbie called about the internship thing, but I had all the information he needed. And you’ve got an appointment Monday at ten-thirty, it’s already on your calendar, so is an appointment with a divorce attorney from three blocks over, Tuesday at eight, I think she wants you to serve some summonses for her. Oh, and Mr. Nelson wanted you to drop in if you had a minute, he didn’t say what for though whoa whoa what happened to you?” Kamala finally looks up from the computer and takes in Kate’s disheveled appearance.

“Drywall.” Kate tells her flatly. “I was doing the counter-surveillance job. Can you give Miss Knight a call and get her on the schedule? She and I need to have a talk about that building.”

“Sure thing, Bosslady.”

“When you’ve done that, I need you to build me a Faraday cage, about--two feet square? Doesn't have to be exact, to put these in," Kate shows Kamala the bag of surveillance equipment.

"A what?"

"A Faraday cage, Kamala. If it just needs to be foil for a day or two, that's fine, but it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to have a permanent one. The internet, Kamala," Kate drops the bag on her desk. "The internet is our friend."

Kamala doesn't quite glare at Kate for a moment.

"Oh, fine," Kate scrolls through her phone and scribbles down a number for her intern. "Call Darcy Lewis. I can't imagine she's never made a Faraday cage."

"Darcy Lewis. Faraday cage. Got it."

"The company card," Kate hands over the AB Investigations credit card. "And then go home. I want you out of here while it's still light; I'm going to be calling it an early day, too-"

“Since you look like you showered with flour? Or cocaine. That’s sort of what cocaine looks like, right?”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Kate scoffs. “Is it?”

“Um. No. Absolutely not.”

“We need to work on your lying skills, okay? Write that down somewhere.”

“I’ll write it in all the dust you left on the floor,” Kamala calls as Kate shuts the door, rolling her eyes.

“Jesus, what happened to you?” is the first thing Foggy says as she opens their door.

“It’s called counter-surveillance, Foggy,” Kate doesn’t even try to not glare, she’s tired and her body hurts and she’s got drywall in her hair and her eyes and probably her lungs and going by her luck, asbestos, too.

“I didn’t realize counter-surveillance required looking like you walked through the apocalypse.”

“Why is everyone a critic today?”

“Not a criticism, just an observation,” Foggy holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry.” The gesture causes him to wince, pressing a hand to his ribs.

“How’s the side, then?” Kate says after a bout of coughing, raining some dust onto their floor.

“Horrifically painful,” he groans. “Thanks for asking.” He looks at her a moment before sighing. “We’ve got bottled water in the fridge if you want some.”

“Oh, cool, thanks,” Kate tries to dislodge as little dust as possible as she crosses to their kitchenette. “Did you need me for something?”

“We’re thinking we’d like to hire you to do due diligence for a case, but it can wait for you to get all that dust hoovered out of your lungs.”

“Cool,” Kate coughs. “Never let anyone tell you counter-surveillance is fun. That person is a lying liar who lies.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only person who’s told us that,” Karen pipes up over the want ads.

“Well, _I_ am a lying liar who lies,” Kate points out, pausing to chug half of the bottle of water. “What’s that?”

“Apartment hunting,” Karen sets the paper down.

“I didn’t know you were looking for a different place to live.”

“Just—not really. I just wish I could live someplace where someone wasn’t murdered. Where nobody’s tried to kill me.” Karen says it lightly, but there’s a catch in her voice and Kate has a moment of feeling exceptionally stupid and tactless for never even having thought about how traumatizing that must have been.

“There’s an open apartment in my building,” Kate flicks her finger against the paper. “If you wanna take a look at it, no pressure or anything. It’s a dump right now, but all the appliances are going to get replaced and the flooring too, and it's going to get repainted.”

“New appliances sound nice,” Karen shrugs. “How much?”

Oh. Ooops. Kate doesn’t know what a reasonable price is. How much are her current tenants paying her?

“Uh—fifteen hundred.”

Foggy stares at her like she’s grown another head.

"Not including utilities?" she adds.

“What is it, a postage stamp?” Karen laughs as she folds her paper back up, eyeing Kate from head to toe. "Or is it _in_ the crack den you just came from?"

“One bedroom. It’s not huge but it’s not teeny tiny. Just come see it. _Not_ a crack den.”

Karen holds her gaze for a minute, her smile becoming more serious, before nodding. “Okay.”

“It’s not much,” Kate shrugs, trying not to smile like a maniac. “But you could do something with it. The building's not that bad, and not that far away, either, the tenants are all mostly nice. The top floor was a mega-mess, it’s getting turned into an art studio type thing. You know, hardwood floors, mirrors, soundproofing--there are a few kids who play instruments so they'll have a practice space. It's going to be nice.”

“Never heard of that. A building owner losing perfectly good rental space for a studio.” Foggy puts in.

“Well, like, not the whole top floor. Part of it is going to be tenant storage. That’s normal, right?” Kate has no idea. Clint turned a vacant apartment in his building into a shooting range, for fuck’s sake. She has no frame of reference for this.

She can hear Matt turn a laugh turn into a snort from his office.

“No, no. That sounds…nice. Right, Foggy?”

“Super nice,” Foggy nods.

“Maybe this weekend you can come by and take a look?”

“Sounds good,” Karen smiles and nods. “Yeah, this weekend. Let’s do it.”

"Cool," Kate grins.

"Boss, how much money can I spend on tinfoil?" Kamala yells from across the hall.

Kate can't help but grin at the looks Karen and Foggy give her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the first idea for this fic was actually based around Kate starting to super-hero after the bombings of Hell's Kitchen, and she would consistently refer to The Devil of Hell's Kitchen as the Dumbass of Hell's Kitchen based almost solely on what she could see of his outfit on that one video clip and she would just be ENRAGED by the fact he didn't have any decent body armor and she's trying to find him if only to give him some Kevlar or something. (shoutout to Julia for sharing a brain with me!)  
> which then led to a headcanon that Kate is the financier for all the low-budget non-avengers superheroes--like Daredevil and Spiderman and a few non-X-Men mutants.
> 
> Kate has never been more acutely aware of how much like Lucille Bluth she is. Her entire internal monologue while talking to Karen is "How much can a banana cost, Michael? Ten dollars?"
> 
> The Golden Palm is a made-up front for a real (in-world) corporation. Because I am trash.


	12. Sicks and Bows May Break My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt would like you all to get out of his apartment so he can fall to pieces in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time Kate is directly in the events of the show-I don't know if it works, but I also couldn't imagine Kate taking kindly to children being killed in her city with her weapon.  
> We're officially on the northbound train headed for Angstville, I AM SO SORRY.

_"Who might you be?"_

(Stick is back to his apartment already, which is good, at least Matt knows where he is, and he's still a few blocks away but he's sitting on his couch like he--)

_"You know, I don't really like it when other people B &E my friends' homes."_

(Kate is also in his apartment for some reason, standing on the beams, bow in hand but no helmet, no gloves--not patrolling, what is she doing here?)

_"He said you weren't coming back." Stick sighs in disappointment. "Mattie, Mattie, Mattie."_

(He'd been smelling Kate? It makes sense, though if the woman in question had been Claire, that's still accurate. He hadn't even considered how Kate's scent must be all over his apartment, tangled up in his sheets, lingering around the ceiling, and if that's a metaphor for his life he's just going to ignore it for now)

 _"Two women, then. Life is hard for you, isn't it, Mattie?"_ (if he can hear Stick, Stick can hear him; it's reasonable to assume Stick knows he is listening and is trying to make a point; it wouldn't be the first time).

 _"You should try that again. Only this time try to be less condescendingly creepy. Aaand--action."_ (She nocks an arrow but doesn't draw it)

_"You're what--his girlfriend, then?" Stick says it like the word "girlfriend" tastes bad._

_"What? No? I'm sorry, dude, but a strange woman climbing around the ceiling with a bow and arrow and your first thought is_ girlfriend?"

 _"I thought the weapon was for show. A pampered princess, playing at fighting."_ (Stick is baiting her, trying to get a rise out of her; don't be an idiot, Kate, don't bite, don't be a dumbass, you _know_ when people are trying to play you, figure it out--)

 _She blows a raspberry at Stick_ (very mature, Kate). _"Tell me something I haven't heard. And who are you, again?"_

_"Nobody you need to concern yourself with."_

(that's definitely a stunned silence)

_"...did you just 'little woman this is men's work' me? Wow. I didn't realize this beam was a time machine that took me back to the fifties. Try again."_

(up a fire escape and over to the next roof, getting closer...)

_"I trained him to be a warrior. Not all the lessons took."_

_"Wow, well, I'm sure that's a tragedy. You seem like a really swell kinda guy."_

_"I bet you're just like him, aren't you? Too soft to kill. To do what needs to be done. All tied up in friends and partners--people he'll get killed, people who will distract him. People like you. You're a danger to him, just like he is to you."_

(Kate laughs, which is surprising, she's distinctly un-ruffled by Stick, this is good--over to the next roof, on to a balcony and around the building--)

_"What a rousing vote of confidence," she says amicably, holding on to the sarcasm for a second before turning serious. "I never got that mindset. You know, the push-people-who-care-away mindset. The 'people might get hurt because of me so I better drop 'em quick never mind how they feel about it' thing. Not-caring doesn't make life better or easier for anyone. Hurting people that care about you doesn't prevent bad things from happening to them."_

_"I wouldn't expect you to understand it. You're not a warrior, girlie. All the soft things in this apartment, and you're the softest. A pampered princess who doesn’t have a clue what it’s like, doesn’t have what it takes to survive the war.”_

(--almost there, a block and a half away still, Kate's heart rate picking up then slowing as she takes a deep breath-)

 _"I don't know,"_ (she sounds genuinely thoughtful, which is bad, don't give him _actual_ information, Kate) _"I'm a survivor."_

 _"Have you fought in a lot of wars, princess? Hell, you couldn't survive one day without your," he takes a deep breath, "caramel frappuccino, Jesus, Mattie, who are you even hanging out with?" Stick takes a sharp, shallow inhale, "You’ve fought through a lot of fire, fire and metal, I can smell it in you. And somethin’ stranger than that, but underneath it all, you're just a princess? Pampered and catered to. There’s a war coming, and you’ve never had to fight just for the right to breathe. You ain’t gonna make it. That’s the truth. In war, people die," Stick repeats part of their earlier conversation. "If it's not you, it's the guy next to you. But you already know that, don't you,_ Hawkeye _?"_

_Hawkeye has gone very, very still--but not the stillness of peace; calm in the way the world goes quiet before a hurricane._

_"You know, if I focus," Stick is casual, "I can still smell her blood on you."_

_Above them, her muscles tense like she's about to let a shot off--_

(Should have known Stick would realize who she was; what's that about someone's blood on her? No time, keep moving, they're going to be trying to kill each other by the time he gets there--)

_"You wanna take a shot, little girl? Be my guest. See if you can land one before I get to you."_

_"I'm game," Kate growls. "Let's see who bleeds out first."_

_"So you'd kill me?"_

_"I'm warming up to the idea, yeah. Only I'm not going to shoot you in the heart like you did with that child, I'm going to put an arrow through your eye. Does that sound okay to you?"_

“Well, your partner’s dumber’n you,” Stick shakes his head. “Girl can’t even tell that I’m blind.”

"What the hell was that, Stick?" Matt doesn't snap it out, grinding the words as camly as he can through his teeth. "And why the hell have the two of you broken into my apartment?"

"Do you know what the eyeball _is_?" Hawkeye's voice is calm, casual, even, as she completely ignores Matt and adjusts her aim with Stick's movements. "The eyeball," she continues, her words sliding sharp and low past the taught bowstring, "Is a soft, gooey path to your brain. You might not use your eyes, but surely you use your brain for _something._ "

 _"_ You'd kill me?" Stick sounds smug.

"No," she says. "You'd live. Just not well."

"Hawkeye, it's fine. I'm not going to let him kill that kid. Let me deal with this."

He can tell how much she doesn't want to let him handle things; how much she wants to jump in and _fight_ , how for some reason she holds herself back (trusts him, respects him, maybe it's one of those things)

"On my way out," she bites out, voice like flint as she eases the draw of her bow and puts her arrow back in her quiver. "Just, two more things."

"One, you're right. I'm not a warrior. I'm a superhero. The pay is better and so are the benefits and I get to drink caramel _macchiatos_ all I want. Second," she takes a different arrow out from her quiver (he can smell blood caught in the places where the arrowhead joins the shaft, growing tacky as it dries, even though she’s cleaned it off) and slams it into one of the exposed beams, the shaft vibrating with the force of impact. “Police your goddamn brass. Hawkeye out.”

And she’s swinging over to the rooftop door, slamming out of it (her heartbeat fading into the crush of the city; he's got more important things to do than make sure she makes it home safe right now).

"That's exactly the kind of distraction you don't need, Mattie--"

"You promised me you weren't going to kill anyone."

(and after; after, "I took care of it. Put an arrow right through that thing's heart"; after destroying half of his apartment, after he growls " _Get out of our city,_ " and after "Keep the sticks--you're going to need them," he listens to Stick leave, his labored breathing and still-steady heartbeat thrumming as he gets farther and farther away, until Matt can lose track of him if he just lets his focus slip--so he does, standing still for a while.

But he does move, eventually, to kneel and start picking up the detritus that was once his living room. He doesn't get very far at all, because his hands close around a circle of folded paper, brittle with age.

The night comes crashing down around him.)

...

“Matt?” Kate calls softly as she descends his stairs. “Shit.  _Shit_. Are you okay? What a rude guest, right? Need help?” she trips over the last step, gripping the bannister to stay upright. "Wow, I didn't know you could do that to stairs. Should I call Claire?"

"Get out," he tells her, but his voice is quiet and it wavers, hardly loud enough to carry.

"I'm just going to help you clean up all this broken glass, if that's okay," she approaches him slowly, like you would a wild animal, trying not to startle it.

"I can do it myself," he almost manages to sound like he can.

"I am well aware of your ability to take care of yourself," and there is a surprising lack of sarcasm in the statement. "But I'm your friend and friends help each other clean shit up."

"We're not friends," Stick's words come out in his voice. "I don't have friends."

"Be sure to tell that to Foggy next time you see him," she finally says (after a moment where her heart pounds nervously in a way he doesn't like at all). "Maybe I'm not _your_ friend, but you're _my_ friend."

"You've got shitty taste in friends," his voice forms around his words now, not Stick's.

"Don't talk about my favorite people like that," she chides. "I think at least one of your chairs is a goner, good riddance I say, that thing was hella uncomfortable. Do you want me to go furniture shopping with you? We can get you the best chair Tony Stark's money can buy." She's babbling, filling the silence in a way she usually doesn't, and he wishes he could figure out why, but his brain is going in loops, round and round the circle of paper in his hand. "Matt?"

She stands in the shards of table and glass in front of him, reaching for him and stopping at the last second, brushing her fingers over the circle in his palm.

"That was Stick." he manages to give his words more strength than he feels. "He taught me about my--gifts. Taught me how to fight. He was there for me at a time when no one else was, when--after my dad died. I owe him a lot."

"Matt--I don't know what happened here--" he can hear her head turn, her hair brush her shoulders as she takes in his living room, "But I think I can say with no small amount of authority that you don't owe him _shit_."

"He was trying to train me, and I wanted--I wanted him to be something he couldn't. He helped me--"

Kate makes a very familiar exasperated noise in the back of her throat. "Well, good, I'm glad he helped you. But that doesn't mean he gets to hold it over you for eternity."

"Can we not talk about this, please."

"Okay, O Emotionless Boy, you just bottle that up and let it age for fifty years like a fine wine. And in twenty years, Other Hawkeye and I will invite you over so you can try his Issues I Won't Talk About Wine," she mutters the last part, little good it does, pressing up on her toes. "Do you have a broom--oh, there it is." She stalks off to the corner to fetch it, talking to herself the whole time, punctuating her words with angry sweeps across the floor--"A father figure who is a dick is _still_ a dick, God, what is it with you guys and thinking you deserve this shit?" and "Bad as Clint, I swear to God," and " _My_ dad put a hit out on both of us, you didn't see me being anything but sad and pissed, that shit _was not our fault,_ why must I be the only one with any sense" at which point he does interrupt her (also he thinks that's a bit rich as she's the one who shoots people with a bow and arrow _common sense,_ please).

"Is that true?"

"Is what true?"

"Your dad put a hit out on you?"

"Oh. Yeah. Well, both Hawkeyes, and it's unclear if he actually knew one of them was me at the time. Either way, I'm not super cool with the fact that my pops it the kind of person to put a hit out on a superhero, so, you know. We haven't spoken in a few years."

"Really?"

"You're the human lie detector," she says simply, setting the broom against the wall and crossing to where he's still sitting on the couch, her fingers spidering over his palm, avoiding the bracelet. "Hey, what'd you get all these lamps for?" then, after a beat. "You _know_ you don't deserve this kind of crap, right?"

He doesn't respond, he _can't_ respond-his lower lip is _trembling_ for fuck’s sake, and he doesn't trust his voice--“Matt? You know that guy is an asshole, right? I don't want to presume to know all the intricacies of your relationship with him, but, like, objectively, he's a dick.” Her fingers land on the inside of his wrist, feather-light. "D'you want a hug?"

No, he most certainly does _not_ , he's fine--(it’s like he’s pulled in by her, like water down a drain or a celestial body pulled into her orbit; he pitches forward and she catches him, hugging him awkwardly to her stomach. He shakes against her, not sure if he hurts more physically or mentally, not sure that it matters--)

It takes him a while to hear anything but the roar of his own blood in his ears, for his mind and body to fall back into sync.

When they do, it's not a sharp snap back together like the world coming back into focus after a few hard blows to the head, but something softer, maybe because Kate's hands are rubbing along his shoulders and her fingers are carding through his hair, a sibilant _tch tch tch_ hissing from behind her teeth, soothing in its repetition.

"I'm sorry," his voice is muffled, his face still pressed into her.

“You know, for a couple of badasses, we sure do say sorry a lot,” her voice is light.

"Stick killed that kid, you know."

"I know," she says, pressing her fingers to his bruised temple. "I'm sorry."

"I should have known better."

"Ah, right, I forgot that in addition to having super senses and being a boxing ninja, you're also supposed to be able to read people's minds--or see the future. Actually, when I filled out the application to fight crime in Hell's Kitchen, I was told I'd get a psychic partner. False advertising. I should sue. You wouldn't happen to know any good lawyers?"

He doesn't smile, but he thinks about it, which is a start. 

"What did you come by for? Earlier. When you met Stick?"

"I, um. Was coming to see if you knew anything about a kid getting shot with an arrow? Not for _help_ , okay, for information. And there was a strange man in your apartment, and no you, and--" she trails off. "Wait, how much of our conversation did you hear, anyway?"

He takes a moment to long to answer and he can tell by the way she sighs that his silence has answered for him, and the answer is _too much_ , so he just says, "Most of it, I think."

She sighs. "I'd get on you about the eavesdropping thing but since it's your apartment I don't think the argument holds much water."

"And you would be right," he stands, finally, bracing his palms on Kate's shoulders, grimacing. Feels like he got the shit beat out of him.

"C'mon, chupacabra," Kate shifts to his side to support some of his weight. "Let's get you to bed."

" _Chupacabra?_ " he doesn't move.

"Yeah, I was gonna say devil of Hell's Kitchen but that seemed a little wordy, and then I was like, hey, Jersey Devil, and then I was like, oh, chupacabra is like the Jersey Devil, right? Just the southwest version of it."

"No, actually," he starts walking. "The Jersey Devil is supposed to have the head and feet of a goat. Chupacabras drink the blood of goats."

Kate is silent until they make it to the bedroom, where all she manages is, "I must say, I did _not_ expect that from you."

"That's common knowledge."

"In _blind ninja school_ maybe. You're one weird dude, Murdock." She dumps him to the mattress and he toes off his shoes, shooting an incredulous look in her general direction, tugging lightly on the hem of her shirt and making a show of sniffing.

"Coming from the woman who builds bombs with a dead guy?"

"Wade's not _dead_ ," she flops on her back next to him, sprawling a bit. "He just dies a lot."

"Is that a metaphor, because it doesn't smell like a metaphor."

"Oh, fine," she huffs, rolling off the bed and landing (if you can call it that) in a heap on the floor. "I'll just let you marinate--"

"Second drawer, right side," he says over her. "Some gym clothes you can change into. If you want." (Stick is right, he is weak and he doesn't want to be alone right now with his thoughts and there are worse options than Kate).

"Oh," she sounds a little surprised. "Sure." Matt tries not to listen as she changes--seems rude, after all. "Do you want me to bag these up?" she says as she folds her clothes into something faintly resembling order.

"That's fine. It's not as noticeable when you're not right next to me," he shrugs as she flops back next to him.

"Hey, you look bleedy," she prods his calf with her toes. "Do I need to help you be un-bleedy?"

"I'm fine," he turns his head towards her. "If you could just--talk, though? About anything. That would be helpful."

"Oh sure," she kicks one of her feet into the air. "Any particular topic?"

He shakes his head.

"Did I ever tell you about Wade?" she doesn't wait for a response. "The first time I met him he got stabbed in the chest and he had me pull the knife out. He heals fast, so that wasn't the big deal, but he screamed at me as I pulled it out and really freaked me out, you know? So I stabbed him in the same spot. Remember that. I've stabbed a man in the heart," her voice gets softer and less distinct for a few seconds (maybe minutes), but he eventually catches "...a rabbit with antlers, which doesn't seem really deadly but let me tell you..." and it can only be a few seconds later but he's not sure how that connects with "--barbeque, and let me tell you that whoever thought it was a good idea to put cheese on corn deserves a medal, I mean really--"

At which point he loses track of the conversation entirely and manages to finally, perhaps improbably, fall asleep.

.

When he startles awake a few hours later, bolting upright despite the pain that snaps through his body, he doesn't know why. Maybe it was a nightmare; maybe the sirens blaring through Hell's Kitchen, or the cabbie on the first floor who is watching QVC, or the dog across the hall with sleep apnea, or the cat pawing through the dumpster--

Kate squeezes his hand, drawing his senses back to himself, out of the cacophony of the city. She doesn't seem awake, her breathing and pulse all even and slow, her back to him, her fingers laced through his.

Well. He's the one gripping her hand like a lifeline, so it might be fair to say it the other way around.

He still can't grasp on to what woke him, what he was dreaming about, only that it's left him sweating and panicked, heart racing and lungs not able to get enough oxygen. He tries to suck air in, tries to calm his racing heart, tries not to wake Kate up--

"'S'okay," she mumbles. "You're fine. Everything's okay." She rolls over so she's facing him, hooking an ankle across his shin and her free hand squeezing his arm. "'S fine. S'all fine." the words slide together, rising and dropping in pitch, songlike, as her thumb rubs circles on the back of his hand.

She's not actually awake, though, not fully, and it makes him wonder about her life before she moved here; this doesn't seem like the sort of thing you learn while Avenging or pseudo-Avenging--though maybe it is, what does he know. He tries to relax, he does, but he fails, and apparently Kate has some sort of stressed-out bedmate radar because she stirs next to him, her breathing changing as she drifts towards consciousness.

"Clint?" she says, her breath catching before she squeezes his bicep. "Matt." her breathing evens out, her grip on his arm easing. "Sorry. Old habits." she loosens her fingers but he can't, or doesn't, so she just squeezes. "Nightmare?"

"Don't remember what it was about."

"It happens."

"Who's Clint?"

"The father of my dog," she yawns wide, rubbing at her eyes.

They lie in silence for a few moments, her hot breath puffing across his skin, the first floor's dog yapping at nothing and sirens crossing the city; the sound of a man beating his girlfriend a block over and someone in the same building shooting up and it's too much all pressing in and weighing him down, so much hurt in this city and he can't heal it all, can't fix it all and fight it all--

"Deep breath in, deep breath out," she rubs his arm. "It's easier to make things right if you get sleep, superburrito." her voice is sleep-rough and still singsong.

"Superburrito?" He can hear bones break and hearts slow and people cry and--"Can you talk again? Just talk. Please."

She doesn't even hesitate to take a breath before she starts, and he has to wonder if she's on a train of thought he'd failed to board at the beginning of the night. "I call you a grumpy ninja burrito in my head sometimes. Bad habit, got worse when I was in California, the weird nickname thing. I have these friends--I think you'd probably hate Shawn, actually, but he's like a fungus, he grows on you." She presses the back of her hand against his neck for a moment. "You know what I don't understand? The cupcake craze. Like, very few cupcake bakeries actually make a great cupcake, you know? Most of them just make mediocre cupcakes and skate by on cuteness, and that's hardly fair. Why can't the next big thing be macaron stores? Or pie shops? I mean, do you know how hard it is to make a really decent pie crust? Or God forbid, a meringue?" Is she hungry, is that what's happening? She presses her knees to the side of his thigh. "Still with me? Or are you out there?" she flaps her arm behind her, towards the window, which he takes to mean the city.

"No, I'm here."

"Good."

"Thank you," he says when he's certain he's got a handle on his senses.  

"Not a problem." she hesitates, bites her lower lip. "Other-Hawkeye used to ask me the same thing. Wanted me to talk to drown out the voices in his head."

"Not voices so much as-Hell's Kitchen. The city, the noise of it, just," he flicks his fingers through the air by his ear. "Constantly. What did--why did he need help?"

"After the Battle of New York--you know he was there, fighting, right? But he was also--" she bites back the words, and he imagines she's shuffling them around in her head to make them more palatable, to make them easier to say. "He was kidnapped, in a way? Made to do things--and people died, and were hurt, and he blamed himself for it. Still does, to a certain extent. He would wake up every night, for months, just--panicked. Sometimes he would get sick, like, physically ill." Her voice cracks a little. "He'd--he was kind of my mentor, had been for a few years--SHIELD sort of assigned my whole team a babysitter, and he was-- _is_ \-- my best friend. To see him like that-broken, lost, hating himself-I hope I never see anyone go through that again. I hope you never have to see someone you love go through that."

She says the last part in a rush, holds her breath as if she's afraid of what he's about to say.

"Technically," Matt says before he can think better of it, "I won't ever _see_ anyone go through that."

There's a beat and Matt thinks maybe he stepped over a line (that the hadn't even known was there; Kate doesn't seem to _have_ a lot of lines)

"Asshole," her voice holds no venom as she ruffles his sweaty hair, the thin line of tension in her shoulders easing; it almost lightens her entire being.

"Eh, been called worse," he shrugs. "Been called worse _today_. Been called worse _today_ by _you_ , actually. I'll take it."

"Man, you need higher standards," she sounds half asleep again. "Or I should be nicer or something."

He holds his breath for a beat, lets is out slowly. "You're good at that. Calming people down."

She inclines her head. "Thanks."

He reaches over and touches the tips of her hair with the pad of his finger. She's got some split ends. "You don't talk about the battle much."

She acknowledges this with a slight nod of her head.

"Matt?"

"Yeah?"

"Was he--did--can you smell her blood on me, for real? Or was he just fucking with me?"

"Kate, I don't know who _her_ is," he points out. "I can't, though. Stick--Stick is very gifted. Powerful. He might be able to."

"Oh."

"Who is she?"

She squeezes his hand hard, enough to hurt, enough that he expects a rebuff or that she'll pretend to be asleep.

"A friend."

It's more of an answer than he was expecting, and though Kate remains silent, the pressure of her forehead against his arm is enough to keep him in this room, enough to keep the shouts of Hell's Kitchen at bay.

 .

He wakes to Kate's phone ringing.

"Hello?" her voice is thick with sleep. "Bobbi?" she sits up at that, wide awake. "What's wrong? Oh. Well, good. So you need my help, but I don't warrant a call from Mr. Directorman himself?"

He hears the other person-- _He figured you'd just hang up on him._

"Well, he figured right. How soon do you need me? Now? Now like _now_ now or now like _sometime today_?"

_I'll pick you up in an hour at St. Pat--_

"Why don't we stop pretending you don't work for a government agency and you just pick me up from my apartment. You give me such short notice the least he can offer is door-to-door service."

The person on the other end confers with a third party before assenting and hanging up.

"Blech," Kate might be sticking her tongue out as she says it, he can't be sure. "Pseudo-government. Gross."

"Should I pretend I was sleeping through that call?"

"Uh, yes. Absolutely. Well, looks like I've got to go out of town on business. Try not to get beat up too much in the meantime, okay?" She grabs her clothes and snags her bow, heading for the stairs, then thinking better of it and backtracking, smacking a kiss to his forehead. "Go back to sleep," she hollers over her shoulder.

He barely has time to think _wait, what the fuck,_ before his body agrees with Kate, and he is, once again, asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the first scenes I wrote. I just remember seeing this episode and going "Kate would not stand for this shit" and lo, a fic.
> 
> I don't know how these two became cuddle buddies that was not a stop on this journey I was planning on making.  
> I feel like post-Avengers, Clint was very unstable and also very jumpy, and Kate (and Natasha probably) started the Safe-Touch Hug Reclamation Project that honestly probably evolved to encompass all of the Avengers and is currently just a fancily-named puppypile/pillow fort day. But it started with Tasha and Kate staying with Clint, him holding their hands while he slept.  
> Seriously, though, why were all of the lamps in Matt's apartment turned on in that last scene?
> 
> Still unbeta'ed. Hopefully the next chapter won't take me a month to post. It's been fun to write, at least!


	13. Reunion Tour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Families are always complicated matters, biological or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place at some vague point after season two of Agents of SHIELD after Bobbi has joined up with the team, but probably before the Terrigen mist? I sort of stopped watching after the midseason finale, so go with whatever you wish, my darlings. You shan't hurt my feelings.  
> Also, if you're keeping tabs on "This is What Kate Bishop Does When She's Not Being a PI" you should read "The Better From a Distance Job" AFTER this so you can have that lovely feeling of "I KNEW IT I CALLED IT" (hopefully)

"You'll be infiltrating a high profile party in Madripoor being thrown for their newly-elected president."

Kate thinks she's doing a pretty good impression of the Clint Barton Resting Face (TM) if the sigh Bobbi heaves from the doorway is anything to go by.

"I know you've been to Madripoor once, though the file indicates it was an--abbreviated stay," Agent--no, _Director_ \--Coulson continues. "How much _do_ you know about Madripoor, Miss Bishop?"

"It's small," she says as Bobbi slides into the chair next to her. "And there's a massive dichotomy between the rich and the poor. No extradition." He keeps looking at her expectantly. "That's it. The inflight magazine wasn't very informative."

Coulson visibly suppresses an eye-roll. "Skye? Run it."

"Okay, um," Skye, Agent, whatever, doesn't look like an Agent, so if she is one, she's probably one of Coulson's Accidental Agent Acquisitions. It's like he can't adopt pets so he takes in stray humans, or something. He brought in Clint, which is basically the definition of a stray person. "So, Madripoor." She does something and a topographical map appears on the wall screens. "Almost five thousand square miles, depending on how high the tide is. Small, but not that small. Four months ago, they held their presidential elections and this woman," she taps on her tablet and a picture gets thrown up on the screen, "Was elected. Very little background, almost no online presence. Not to mention she didn't even campaign until a month before the election and she did, like, _super shitty_ in popularity polls."

"She bought the election," Bobbi clarifies.

"It's actually not as hard as you'd think," Kate says. "I mean. For a country that small? What?"

They're all staring at her.

"I know people," she glares, daring any one to say something, before Phil clears his throat.

"Moving on, Skye. Go ahead."

"Her name is Ophelia Sarkissian, and from what we can tell, she's a higher-up in Hydra--"

"This keeps getting better and better," Kate mutters, and Skye is a fast learner because she just ignores her.

"And was placed in power _by_ Hydra, or at least individuals with presumed or actual Hydra ties. We don't know for sure why, but a good guess is because it's a trade and business hub for the Pacific Rim as well as the fact that, as you pointed out, they have no extradition treaties. With anyone."

"So, what, you're thinking--terrorist funding and then a nice little terrorist safe haven. Okay, that's awful and terrifying, but where do I come in, exactly?"

The agents all look to Coulson, who is staring at her like he's not sure if he can trust her, which is bullshit since _he_ called _her_ and she's sitting in his top-secret spy base.

"When SHIELD fell," he begins, and Kate is an adult and doesn't groan or swear or make a disparaging remark, "Nobody was expecting it. And a lot of agents--good agents--were left in the field, some of them in deep cover assignments that they'd been on for years. Or missions in hostile territory. And that information-the details of their covers, their real identities, were compromised. Skye, along with-several...friends-managed to pull some of that information off of the web--"

"It's still somewhere on the dark web," Skye cuts in. "You can't just remove stuff from the internet, it's not like that. Well, you _can,_ but _I_ can't."

Kate counts Phil's deep breath, in-two-three-four, out-two-three-four.

"Through various backchannels and third parties and with a great deal of time and effort, we've managed to get in contact with several operatives still loyal to-" he catches sight of her face and amends, "Well, _not_ loyal to Hydra, at any rate. The party is their extraction, and you're going to be the one to do it."

"Why there? Why now? It seems like it would be easier to organize this whole production in a country that _does_ extradite, dummy up some charges, get them extradited. Why didn't you do that?"

"It took time to get in contact with all of them, and this is the most expeditious way to do it."

"Okay. Why me, then?"

Phil levels her with a look and she barely has time to think, _dammit, David_ , before he says, "Strangely enough, though you and your team were all at one point in time on the Index, your files were somehow not in any of SHIELD's databases when Natasha released all of SHIELD's files."

"So," and Kate is not a big enough person to not rub this in, "You need _us_ because my ragtag team of former juvenile delinquents and current felons is more secret and unknown than your supersecret spy agency?"

Beside her, Bobbi sighs and rubs her face with her hand.

"Yes, Miss Bishop, though you and your team should at this very moment be on international watch lists, you are all but invisible. We bow to your technological superiority. _Now_ can we move on?" His tone is dry enough to give a saltine a run for its money.

"Okay," she nods, her smile hard and all teeth. "So, did you actually _ask_ the boys, or did you kidnap them in the night?"

"I have agents standing by to transport them after you get in touch with them."

"Well, don't be surprised if whatever agent or agents you sent for David are unconscious."

Phil raises his eyebrows at her as if to say, _explain, please,_ which she very much is not going to, it's his own damn fault.

"Before I sign on the dotted line, how many agents are we talking, here? Three? Two? Five?”

“Nine.”

“ _Nine?_ Jesus Christ, Phil. How are we supposed to smuggle nine people back to the US?"

“We don’t need them back to the US. We just need them out of the field. If you can get them to France, say, or—“

"Oh, my God," Kate drops her head to her arms. “How much help can you give us, anyway? Or do we just get there and hope for the best?"

"We can help you with transportation to Madripoor, and we can offer you funding-within _reason,_ Kate, I'm not Stark and I can't afford for you to buy your body weight in explosives."

"Party pooper," she mutters.

"Once you're out of Madripoor or Madripoorean borders, however that may be, we can pick you up, and you, your team, and the agents will be back under SHIELD's purview."

"So Madripoor itself is a dead zone for you guys, but-"

"As soon as you're out of it, yes, we can help."

"I don't like it."

"But you'll do it." It's not a question because Phil is a dick.

"Sure, we'll do it. Not for nothing, though. Double our usual fee. All expenses. One of those payments needs to be in unmarked nonsequential bills. And I'd like you to forget you ever even _knew_ how to find the rest of my team. You can keep me on speed dial for all I care, but you lose their information."

"I think I'm in love," the scruffy guy next to Skye mutters, and both Phil and Bobbi turn to glare at him.

The Director's eyes drift up to the ceiling and he sways a little, mulling her terms over, or pretending to. It's very likely that he knew most of what she would demand and has already decided yes or no, and is just playing mind games with her. "I think we can do that."

"What else can you tell me about this party, anyway?”

"The Diplomat's Residence is a fairly new building,  constructed during the last economic boom Madripoor experienced. Madame President has been using it to house foreign dignitaries and purported friends of the state-more than likely Hydra leaders or potential Hydra allies. We speculate that, as it runs on a separate security system than the Prince's Palace, and therefore does not fall under the purview of the government, that this is where all the--back-alley deals, so to speak, are happening."

"So what you're saying is, this is a party full of psychos and genocidal maniacs, who are probably going to be _super_ pissed when they find out they were crashed by a bunch of Avengers at the behest of SHIELD?"

Phil's face is a complete blank. "Not if you do your job right." Oh, it is _on_. "The party itself is a black-tie event, with very high security. Getting in is going to be just as much of an issue as getting out."

He slides her the dossier.

"Wait, we're pulling in the Avengers for this?" the scruffy guy asks, looking from her to Phil and back. "I thought we were trying to keep a low profile."

"Not the Avengers in the public eye," Phil says before Kate can chew this guy a new one. "More like...shadow Avengers. They're the team that goes where the Avengers can't-or couldn't, I'm not sure they follow the same rules now as they used to."

Kate suddenly and unfortunately remembers why she used to like Phil.

"Anyway," Phil picks up his train of thought, "The property is not technically part of the Palace, but it _is_ a presidential holding. I believe you know the host."

She finally flips open the dossier to see-

“ _Whitney Frost?_  Well, that's great. Picking me totally makes sense, since she wants to kill me and _knows what I look like_.”

"Won't be a problem," Phil cuts in. "While she's been staying in the Residence quite often of late, she was called back to the States to deal with her business."

"Awesome," she mutters. "Anytime I can avoid an insane robot that wants me dead."

“Yeah," the scruffy guy agrees, leaning back and putting his feet on the table right next to Bobbi. “She put a price on your head. Considered going after you myself a few times.”

“ _Hunter_ ,” Bobbi glares at him, which he ignores.

“How much?”

“One point two million as of about a year ago. And only if you're alive. If you're dead, then she won't pay.”

“Just a million? Well, that’s a little disappointing.”

Hunter looks from her to Bobbi before he snaps his fingers. “I like her," while Bobbi sighs, "Why alive?" like she knows she's not going to like the answer but thinks it's her duty to be informed.

"Because I pissed her off and blew up her house a few years ago and she wants to use my face as an ashtray," Kate says absently, sliding another folder across the table, flipping it open to look at the list of caterers and hired staff. "So, these agents--are their covers still intact?"

"They're alive," Coulson looks up from the blueprint. "We have to assume so, or assume that they've successfully convinced whoever they are working for that they are no longer SHIELD."

"Should this extraction include faking their deaths? So that they don't have very angry Hydra dickwads coming after them or their families, so they can actually see those families again?" she looks up at Phil. "You know, so the people who care about them don't go around thinking they're dead and grieving them and feeling guilty _for no reason at all_."

Next to her, Bobbi goes very still, and Kate can feel every eye in the room on them.

"Can we table that discussion for later?" Phil's mouth goes tight.

Kate thinks about the money, about nine strangers who shouldn't have to pay for Phil Coulson's mistakes. She thinks about a man who'd dumped every manual SHIELD had in print in front of her, the third time he'd brought her in, _Read them. Learn them. If you understand the system, you can understand how to work it._ She thinks about the marker she and Clint and Tasha picked out that reads _Philip Coulson_ even though there'd been no remains-

"Sure." she says. "Later."

She stares at Whitney Frost's picture, at Madame Masque, wonders briefly if she's loaned out any Life Model Decoys to Madame President.

"Do you have an idea, as far as faking their deaths?" Bobbi breaks the silence.

"I'm thinking I should blow this building up."

"Do you really want to be labeled as a terrorist on international news?"

"Well, that assumes that they'll have any footage I don't want them to after Prodigy is done with them. And your tech geeks, of course. Also, terrorism against a Hydra stronghold? I'm not gonna kill civilians willy-nilly. I'm just gonna blow up a building. That I will empty beforehand by calling in a bomb threat and maybe setting on fire a little."

Beside her, Bobbi closes her eyes. "What is it with you and fire?"

"The kicker is, love, you and yours have to at least get _in_ the country without raising the alarm. On a plane or boat. Which means that you don't get to take in all sorts of fun, boom-y type things." Hunter points out.

"Let me see the blueprint, again?"

Hunter slides it over to her.

"I think," she taps a pen against the table, "That one of us might be a pastry chef."

"What?"

She scribbles some equations on the corner of the drawing, nodding. "You can't get me my body weight in explosives, but could we get, like, six times my body weight in flour? And a flame-retardant skinsuit that Tommy can wear under his suit."

Lance is the only one looking at her with anything but shock.

"Also pistachios. A big, big container of pistachios. No air holes."

"Are you taking the job or baking cookies?"

"Why can't I do both?" She grins at Skye. "And whatever David says he needs. I don't want you getting all pouty-face when he gives you a list with twelve things you didn't even know existed."

"We'll put him with Simmons," Phil agrees.

"And we'll need a cargo plane. Not a shiny new one, either. It needs to look like it's got some miles on it. And a pilot would be helpful, I'd rather not have to depend on David as the getaway driver. And a cargo ship. Just in case. And two vans, two sedans, and something with a little get-up-and-go in it. Or the money to purchase them when we get there. Yeah," she nods mostly to herself. "Oh, and an evening gown and two-no-wait, yeah, two tuxedos. Yeah. That should work. And fifty thousand in petty cash."

Phil opens his mouth, presumably to argue.

"How else am I supposed to bribe people? I think this is a very reasonable shopping list."

And Phil shuts his mouth, because she is right.

 .

"I have a paper due tomorrow," Billy complains as he exits the plane.

"No you don't," Kate doesn't even look up from the shopping list she and David are putting together.

"But if I did?"

"I would say, Billy, ask for an extension if you don't have it done _which I highly doubt_ and also how would you like to pay off your student loans, and then I  would close by having already talked to Teddy and convincing him to come _first_. No," she turns to David. "Go talk to Fitzsimmons, they're going to hook you up with that stuff."

"They?"

"Fitz and Simmons, two separate entities, although I have yet to meet them and verify this with mine own two eyes. "

"Entities?"

"They might be people, I'm not sure."

"Hey, next time SHIELD needs a little help, can we ask them _not_ to send suits to stalk me for a day and a half?" Tommy runs a few slow-ish loops around the hangar. "And didn't you _just_ accept this job, like, an hour ago?"

"I was just _told_ about this job like three hours ago. He was assuming I'd say yes. Or maybe he was assuming if I didn't say yes one of you would."

"Why would any of us take the job solo?" David mutters, prying the cover off of a piece of tech Kate couldn't even begin to explain. "You know, particularly if you'd turned him down."

"Nah, nah, I've seen this movie," Tommy shakes his head at them. "He's running pre-crime, right? He's got some psychics in the basement and we're here to help him stop crime before it happens."

"Yes, Tommy I'm sure that's it," Teddy flexes his hand, turns it into a fair approximation of Mjolnir, turns it back into a hand. "Pre-crime. We're the real life version of _Minority Report._ "

"Wait," Tommy comes to a full stop, a rare occurrence. "Weren't there psychic _twins_ in that movie? Oh my God, is he going to stick wires in our brains and suspend us in that goop stuff? Are Billy and I the precrime twins?"

David says "Oh, my God," and covers his face with his hand at the same time Kate goes, "Jesus Christ, Tommy."

"What?" He jogs in place, then zooms around the plane-Bus?-they came in on. "I think it's a fair question. Hey," he jerks his chin up, grinning as Skye approaches. "How you doin'?"

" _No_ ," Kate tries to keep her exasperation in check. "Tommy. Do I need to get a rolled up newspaper and boop you on your snoots? Please behave."

"I aim to--"

Billy's hand glows blue, the glow echoed around Tommy's face, either muting him or just trapping the sound. "Can we not? I don't want to have to listen to another hour-long explanation of who we are in _Firefly_." The glow vanishes and Tommy opens his mouth again, and Billy raises his hand again. "Or _Star Wars._ Or _Star Trek._ Because you're always _wrong_ ," he answers the question made clear by Tommy's eyebrow acrobatics.

"Kate is _not_ Kirk, she is clearly the unholy lovechild of Picard and Janeway." David doesn't even bother to look up as he says it.

"Is this what you guys talk about when I'm not around?"

"Sometimes we talk about who'll survive a zombie apocalypse the longest," Teddy shrugs.

"It's me, in case you were wondering," Tommy calls from across the hangar before running back to the group. "Because I can outrun all of you."

"No, it's me," Billy says with a shake of his head. "Because I can just-- _BAMF_ the zombies dead."

"I still think it's me because who's to even say a zombie bite would affect me?" Teddy gets a nod from David because that is a very valid point.

"You're all wrong," Kate informs them. "None of us would die because we would work together."

They stare at her for a moment before Tommy breaks the silence with, "Thanks, Coach."

"I've gotta ask," Skye interrupts the glare-off that ensues. "Bobbi was telling us some stories about you guys--did you _really_ invade a European country dressed as a folk band?"

" _No_ ," Teddy groans as the rest of the boys chorus similar sentiments.

"Bobbi's just making stuff up," she assures Skye. "We didn't _i_ _nvade_ a European country. Who does that?"

"We're not _Lenin_ ," Tommy scoffs.

"We _liberated_ it." Teddy smiles at Skye.

" _Eastern_ European," Tommy adds.

" _Small_ Eastern European," David amends.

"And we weren't dressed like a folk group, we were dressed like the Von Trapps. From _The Sound of Music._ " Billy  grumbles. "Honestly, I don't know how these crazy rumors get started."

"Maybe it's because we're folk _heroes?_ " Teddy guesses.

"Ohhh," Tommy and Kate say in almost the exact same tone.

"Can I ask _why_?"

"Oh, you know. For fun." David blows some dust out of the component.

"Everyone should try it," Kate nods.

Billy just rolls his eyes a little. "Our birth mom--Tommy and me," he explains to Skye. "Well, she-basically, in order to get to her, we had to liberate Latveria."

"That seems--" Skye looks a little unsure of what to say, or how to say it. "A little--" she waves her arms out wide like she's trying to encompass the magnitude of it.

And _this_ is why Kate's team and SHIELD never got along. They never get it. "That's what you do for family," she shrugs, like _isn't it obvious?_

"Yup," David nods beside her, eyes still glued to the tech, so he doesn't see the looks both Billy _and_ Tommy send their way.

Tommy, apparently having filled his emotional maturity quota for the day, drags Kate off of the crate she'd been siting on and starts belting out the Latverian National Anthem, swinging her around and around, going painfully flat on the last few notes, marching Kate around the hangar, before addressing the group as a whole. "We should go back for Independence Day this year. Bio-Mom's been asking."

Skye clears her throat. "I actually came down here to tell you that Coulson managed to pull together everything from your shopping list, and we have a room free for you to do your briefing in. Follow me?"

"I don't like following," Tommy says.

"Will there be pizza?" The device in David's hands beeps and lights up.

"I hope you have a handout, I'm an audio-visual learner," Billy adds.

This is the other reason SHIELD and her team never got along (Kate loves her team dearly but frankly they're a bunch of a-holes.)

 .

“You know this identity has been compromised.”

Kate suppresses a sigh-and-eye-roll combo meal but just barely.

“Yes, David, I get it. Burned identity means bad things happen when people check it. It's the only alias we have access to right now that has sufficient pull to get me in. How long will it last?”

“An hour, tops? I can have Tommy help me backdoor a bug in their security system, but it’s not going to take it out, that’s too suspicious, it’ll just slow it down.”

“That’ll work.”

"It will?"

"An hour is plenty. Thirty minutes for Teddy and I to schmooze and identify our targets while Tommy sets the other stuff up. An extra ten if we have trouble finding one of them. Ten for Billy to call it in and get in position while Teddy preps the other two cars. Ten minutes to get 'em out and for me to rendezvous with you and by then if they realize that I'm not actually Charlotte Prentiss, it'll be too late."

"If you say so."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence."

"Look, I'm just trying to avoid you getting thrown in jail in a country that _doesn't extradite_."

"If I get thrown in jail I'll just have you break me out. What? You've totally done that before. I know you have."

David gets all huffy.

"Dude, what. It's not my fault that your boyfriend spent like a week crashed on Clint's couch once and that he's very chatty if you let him cook. Save that glare for him."

"Don't think I won't," he counters.

"Can you pout and give the rest of the backgrounds?" Kate takes the plate Teddy's offering her as the rest of them take their seats.

"I don't pout."

"Of course not. My mistake," Kate shoves half a piece of pizza in her mouth. "Run it."

"Teddy--you'll be impersonating this fella right here," David throws a picture on screen with the man's statistics so Teddy can start getting his face down. "Former chief minister of finance for Latveria--pre-revolution, of course. You and Kate have official invites, you'll be at the party. Tommy--this is you. Eugene Riley, master pastry chef. You were hired last minute since the original chef was called in to participate in Iron Pastry Chef."

"Is that a real thing?" Billy leans forward.

"Do you really want to know?" Kate presses.

Billy thinks about it for a minute.

"Anyway," David shrugs, spinning a little in his chair. "The role of Tommy's beleaguered assistant will be played by Billy-though apparently you two are going to have a big fight about something or other before the party."

Billy raises an eyebrow at Kate, who shrugs. "We need you in to help with all of David's techno-magic but out to call in the bomb threat."

"It's not magic," David mutters.

"Wait, so we're going to blow a place up--but not before we call the authorities and _tell_ them we're going to blow it up?"

"Right. And Tommy's going to set fire to something at some time around your call--what? Look, we just want it to _look_ like people died. We don't actually want to kill anyone."

"We're better than that," Billy frowns at his brother.

"Unless Madame Masque is there," Kate continues. "In which case we should try to kill her before she kills me. Oh, come on," Billy and Teddy are looking at her like she's grown another head. "She's already tried, what, three times? Eventually it's going to stick."

"Yeah, Kate's got a hit out on her," Tommy mutters, shifting in his chair when Kate turns her glare on him. "What? David knows about it too!"

"Yeah, but I _know_ why David knows that I have a hit out on me. I _don't_ know how you know that."

"I told him," and even from this angle she can see the smug set of David's grin.

Kate is an adult and absolutely does not throw her napkin at him.

.

Hulkling steers her around the room, introducing her to dignitaries who kiss her hand and leer and glare, and the nine people they’ve come to extract. She touches herself a lot—rubbing her neck, adjusting her hair, fiddling with her jewelry as she shakes hands, pulling out little discs that she presses into the agents’ wrists, the paper-thin circles not even noticed, even now delivering a drug into their bodies that will render them unconscious within the hour.

“Hawkeye,” Prodigy’s voice is in her ear. “Hawkeye, your cover’s blown. They’re coming for you now, you need to get out of there.”

“Speed, how much more time do you need?” she asks through her smile.

“Ten minutes? It would go a lot faster if I could run."

“No, I don’t need you exposing yourself like that. Hulkling, I think it's time you dumped me and put on a new face.”

"Yes'm," he says, rubbing his nose to cover the fact that he's making it bigger, bowing a little to her and rubbing his chin as he walks away. By the time he gets to the bar, he'll be unrecognizable.

“Guys, this doesn't change anything. We're not jumping the gun on this, we're going to do it right. Wiccan, wait for Speed to finish setting up before calling it in. Prodigy, you're running it now. I feel like I might be incommunicado when we’re ready to roll.”

"Hawkeye, she's here, Whitney Frost is _here_ ," Prodigy's voice is low and urgent in her ear. "Get _out_."

She smiles brightly as two men with blemish-free skin and eerily symmetric faces each grip one of her arms.

"Come with us, ma'am."

"Is something the matter?"

"Your host would like a word."

"Well, that's just swell, fellas, but I've got a date--"

She's frog-marched into an elegant library, not a dungeon like she'd frankly been expecting, where a woman in a white jumpsuit and golden mask greets her, which is also not exactly what she'd been expecting.

“Kate Bishop,” Madam Masque is polite enough, “Still troublesome as always.”

“Is that really you under there, Whitney? I can never tell,” she says as an aside to the robo-guard-decoy-model-thing. "And if it's not, do you have a face under the mask? Or do you not bother, does the face cost extra?"

Masque cocks her head to the side. "How are you still alive?"

"Honestly, I wonder that myself almost every day."

 _Five minutes, Hawkeye, stall_ Prodigy's voice is low and calm in her ear.

"Did you hear that?" Masque snaps out at her guards, who shake their heads. "Comb the place. She's not alone."

"Super hearing? Nice. Nice addition. Is that a new feature?"

“I've been looking forward to killing you for quite a while, Kate.”

“It's good to have goals, I guess? Kudos on the getting creepier since I last saw you thing, too. Now, were you planning on killing me now, or later? I promised a dashing young gentleman I would meet him in the coat closet in five minutes-”

"Shut _up,_ " Masque snaps. "Honestly, I was hoping you'd be a little less idiotic this time around."

"You say idiot, I say managed to bring down your California crime operation with a nice gay couple, an insane cat, a half-blind dog, a bow I bought for less than a hundred bucks and some arrows I stole off other-Hawkeye." 

Kate gets backhanded by a very strong and very painful robot-hand. At some point, she will learn from her past mistakes and stop antagonizing people who are all metal and anger who aim for the jaw.

"So is _Crazy Bitch_ a paid add-on, or does it come standard?"

"You know," Masque looks pensive. "Maybe I'll kill your friends in front of you, and _then_ kill you. I think I would enjoy that."

_Ready Hawkeye? On my mark, three, two, one--_

An alarm starts to sound through the whole building, and one of the guards bangs through the door.

"Sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but someone has called in a bomb threat, we're being ordered to clear the building."

"Don't look at me," Kate shrugs as Masque grips her forearm. "I've been chillin' with M-n-M this whole time."

"You," Frost drags her from the room. "You are staying with me."

"Wow. Ask a girl to dinner first."

_Building clear except for Hawkeye._

_**I'll pick her up on my way** **out**  _Speed says.

"They're coming for her," Masque says, her grip tightening while Kate fumbles with her bracelet. "I want them all."

There's a small burst of flame a few feet from them, and a _boom,_ and Kate puts on her most concerned face. "Oh, Whitney. I think I might have left the gas on," and she's slamming the bracelet into what little skin of Masque's neck is exposed, her whole body jerking as she goes down, hard.

The two goons go, too, popping with electricity as Speed tazes them, grabbing Kate by her waist, racing them out of the building, past another small fire, and behind an unmarked van. The whole thing takes less than ten seconds and in those ten Kate's managed to catch on fire.

"What the hell was that?" Speed asks, neatly tearing off the burning part of her dress and stomping the fire out.

"I stole one of Natasha's Widow's Bites," she says, casual, as the whole mansion is engulfed in flames and dust, walls crumbling. "She just _left them out_ obviously she meant for me to take a few. Nice job, by the way."

"That's not what I--wow," Speed looks a little nonplussed. "That's--seriously? Flour? I just ran through that room--that's all it took?"

"I told you," she says. "Dust explosions are very serious things, and you produce a lot of friction." She shoves him away. "Now get your cargo and get out."

Speed salutes her before he's gone, and Prodigy is crawling out of the van, computer in hand.

"We setting the van on fire, too?" he asks as another _boom_ comes from the mansion, the sound of something else crumbling.

"Seems logical," she says.

"Oh, good, I was hoping I didn't make this ridiculously flammable for no reason," he grins at her and snaps his laptop shut. "We've already made international news."

He flicks a match on to the van, climbs into their getaway car. "I've got traffic. Let's go."

"What's the news saying?" Kate swings herself into the driver's seat of the pea-soup green convertible that's next to the now-burning van. "Buckle up, please," and then they're peeling out of the drive.

"Attack on President's party in Madripoor," he reads off the headlines. "Terrorist attack in Madripoor, Is Hydra Behind It, five minor injuries and four missing. Hopefully just four of ours." He looks back over his shoulder and the crumbling mansion. "Well done, us."

The whole thing is immensely satisfying.

.

“We have everybody?” Kate asks Billy as they pull into the plane.

“Nine unconscious agents and five Avengers and their plus-one,” his hand starts to glow as the loading bay starts to close up behind them. “Just waiting for you guys.”

“Well, let’s get the hell out of here, tell SHIELD we’re ready to head home,” she nods, following David into the plane.

She makes sure the nine stretchers holding nine SHIELD agents are strapped down as they take off, before sitting with her team near the cockpit, strapping in just as they start to climb.

“I think that’s for you,” Tommy inclines his head towards something behind her feet, and she pulls out a rather large box with a bullseye drawn on in purple sharpie. “How come you got a present?”

“Because I asked for it,” she pulls it open, grinning at the contents.

“How come you got a present?” David gripes as he flops down next to her.

“Exactly what I said, man,” Tommy nods at him.

“You’re all a bunch of whiners,” Kate informs them, pulling out a cooler and clamping it between her feet, reaching back into the box and drawing out a vacuum-sealed bag that she tugs open. “Blanket, blanket, blanket,” she tosses them to her team, “Pillow, pillow.”

“Hey, cool,” Tommy tucks himself into the corner against the cockpit, bracing his pillow with his head, tucking his feet under his blanket. “Slumber party!”

Kate rolls her eyes before tossing a jar of peanut butter at Tommy and a bag of roasted almonds at Teddy, opening the cooler and handing Tommy a bottle of chocolate milk and grapes and hummus to Billy, Teddy gets a bottle of orange juice; David gets a bag of gummi frogs and a bottle of his crappy orange soda, which is weird because Kate distinctly remembers telling Coulson to put in actual orange juice and a few bagels for him. “Everybody eat up,” she tells them, keeping an eye on David as he opens his bag of frogs and grins when he pulls out a note.

Kate’s too tired to pretend to be annoyed by that; it’s cute.

“Rest up, guys,” she stands, squeezing each man's shoulder as she steps past them. “You did good.”

Everybody has a full mouth so she gets nods and mumbles of assent as she makes her way back to check on the unconscious agents.

By the time she’s checked all nine again, making sure nobody’s having a bad reaction to the drug they used, the boys are all asleep. She tucks David's blanket around his shoulder, pulls Billy's open beverage out of his hand and caps it, adjusts Tommy's pillow so his head is on it and not the hull of the plane.

"You should get some rest, too," Hunter says after glancing back at her team. "I've got this, nothing else you can do right now."

She sits in the copilot's seat, shaking her head. "Mission's not over yet."

"Okay, well, it's the mission intermission, then."

"And what if you need help or something happens and everyone but you is unconscious? Nah," she twists around to pull the manila folder and the tablet out of the box. "I got paperwork to do, anyway."

"So much easier if you just freelance these things," he mutters.

"Oh, yeah," she nods. "But the benefits are better. Well. There's sometimes hazard pay, at least. And I get to make Phil Coulson hand me a briefcase full of untraceable cash. That just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

"What's that about, anyway?"

"What?"

"You. The Director, all," he makes what she guesses is supposed to be an angry face, lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace.

She flips the form she's filling out over and starts to check items off on the back.

"You must be a level seven friend before you can unlock my tragic backstory." She checks off five boxes in Column I, Subsection A.

"Hey, if you want to sit in silence for the next few hours, that's fine," he shrugs. "I'm just trying to make conversation--"

"You know, I've heard silence before?" Kate moves on to Subsection B. "It doesn't sound anything like this."

"Well, if you're going to be rude about it--"

He's interrupted by a faint _buzzz_. Kate digs around in the box--she didn't remember packing her phone, but it's not like Phil would have put it in there--right? maybe David.

**Tasha: Please be nice to Phil.**

Well. Rude. her phone buzzes again.

**WWDP: Scary spider lady says be nice to the Cheese.**

**WWDP: Yellow box says fuck it and do what you want.**

Okay. Is there a phone tree? The 'we know Hawkeye's been waiting for a chance to rip Coulson a new one' emergency phone tree? Is that it? Who puts Deadpool on a phone tree?

Another buzz.

**Hawkeye: Please be nice to Phil**

**Hawkeye: I'm serious**

Seriously? Everyone's a critic.

**Pretty, Fly: I've been told to remind you to be nice to Phil.**

**Pretty, Fly: Also, don't let Hunter antagonize you. It's his way.**

For fuck's sake, Bobbi.

**Starlord: ok who the fuck is Natasha and how did she get this number**

**Starlord: who is phil**

**Starlord: why are you supposed to be nice to him**

**Starlord: if you want to be rude to him I say go for it.**

**Starlord: so does drax.**

**Starlord: and gamora and rocket obvs.**

**Starlord: not groot tho groot says I am groot I think he means be kind or something. that or stick a tree branch up his nose let me ask rocket**

Definitely a phone tree.

Her phone vibrates again--a call this time--she picks it up and snarls, "I am _not_ going to _be nice_ to _Phil!"_

"Who's Phil?"

Wait. What?

Kate's mind screeches to a halt and then throws it into reverse.

"Kate? Any particular reason you don't want to be nice to him?"

Kate gapes uselessly at the phone.

"Still there?"

" _Matt_?" she says, not exactly sure she's correct. "What's wrong? Is something wrong? Are you dying? Are you dead? Am I dead? Is Kamala? Who's dead?"

"Nobody that I'm aware of, calm down."

"Okay? Um, why are you calling? Everything's okay?"

"No, yeah, everything's fine. I just--Kamala was worried about you, she hasn't heard from you in a few days. I promised her I'd see if I could get a hold of you."

"A few days?" Kate parrots back dumbly. No, that's right. All day at the Playground, overnight flight to Madripoor, a day spent setting groundwork and cover stories, that night spent buying cars and bribing a fisherman and a baker, the morning spent fine tuning, then, party. A few days. "Kamala was worried?"

"Sure." It sounds like he might be lying. "Karen too, actually."

"Well, I'm fine. I'll be back in a few days, hopefully. Unless I drown in paperwork done in triplicate," she glares at the file in her lap and Hunter huffs a laugh.

"Good. As long as you're--good. I just wasn't sure, with how abruptly you had to go--that call sounded-urgent."

"Sort of," she stifles a yawn. "It's fine though."

"Good." It sounds like there's more he wants to say, but he keeps cutting himself off. "Stay safe."

"Oh ho, that's rich coming from you, my friend."

He laughs and Kate has a sudden, vivid image of exactly how he smiles when he chuckles like that, part I-know-you're-right and part but-I'm-going-to-do-the-thing-anyway.

"I should go," he says.

"Okay."

He doesn't hang up.

"Matt?"

"Right here."

"Thanks for calling. It's--just-thanks."

"No problem, Hawkeye."

She hears him breathe half a world away for a moment before he hangs up.

And her phone buzzes again.

I will not be nice to Phil, she thinks peevishly.

**Foggy: kate i'm sorry to bother you I know your working or undercover but can you at least shoot matt a text he's going out of his gourd I think he's worried about you**

**Foggy: he's pacing like a caged lion or something**

**Foggy: ahaha oops**

**Foggy: he just said he talked to you**

**Foggy: let's pretend this never happened**

**Foggy: oh but he did just ask me to send you a text telling you to not be nice to phil if you don't want to? I don't know what that means. I hope that's not a euphemism for something.**

"Kate, was that your boyfriend?" Billy mumbles sleepily.

"What do I need a boyfriend for, I've got the four of you and occasionally America," she says, utterly disinterested. "Go back to sleep."

And he does.

.

Roughly eight hours and nine incredibly disoriented SHIELD agents later, Kate stops by to hand in all of her SHIELD-issue paperwork to the Director before heading home.

"Kate? A word?"

"Yeah?" she pulls back all the other things she wants to say. "What?"

"I asked you to table a topic for later," he says. "It's later."

"Oh, you actually want to--? Okay," Kate is...Kate does not know what to do with that. She'd assumed that this would go like the last time they saw each other, and Phil would simply ignore her until it was time for her to leave.

She sits down.

He stares at her.

She stares at him.

He folds his hands across the desk.

Kate has had no less than six people text her in the last half of a day telling her to be nice to Phil Coulson, and you know what? She is absolutely not going to be nice to Phil Coulson.  

"Are you going to _say_ something? Or is this your version of talking now?" she finally snaps after several minutes of silence.

"I'm trying to figure out what to say."

"Well, you've only had a few years."

"Kate--"

"You know what? No, I have something to say, and I didn't have _three years_ to figure out how to say it." She takes a deep breath, gripping the arms of the chair to steady her shaking hands.

"What you did? Makes me angry. It makes me," she takes another deep breath. "Makes me so fucking angry, for me and for Tasha. But what you did to Clint is _inexcusable_. You were dead, you weren't dead, you couldn't talk, _whatever_. Clint spent years--years, do you hear me? Thinking he was responsible for your death. And all the stuff Loki made him do, it was--"

"Kate, I'm sor--"

"Don't. Don't you dare. Can you just--after D.C., and SHIELD--whatever, why you didn't--right away. You could have, right then, and you didn't tell us."

"When was I supposed to do that? I was doing triage on a dying agency, trying to keep my team alive."

"Join the damn club, Phil! Yeah, I wound up not needing to worry about my team, but I worried about Natasha and Clint-and the months after D.C., when there was a blanket hit on any Hawkeye-you weren't the only one trying to keep people alive, Phil."

"I was trying to rebuild SHIELD," Phil sounds angry, which is novel--he always seems to be polite and distantly cool when he talks to her anymore. "And that was--it _is_ important. I can't just think about myself, my wants. The world needs this organization--"

"Oh, save the hard sell for someone who buys it, Coulson," she practically spits. "Do you know what's _not_ mutually exclusive with rebuilding a shitty shadow government agency? _Picking up your goddamn fucking phone._ "

"What would I have said, Kate? What could I have _possibly_ said?"

"I don't know, how about, hey, you thought I was dead and I sort of was but they brought me back, don't be sad! Also, how are you?" she glares at him. "See? See how not-hard that was?"

"You can't even begin to convince me that that speech would have been adequate."

"Of course not! But it would have been a start! it would have been better than nothing! Better than--" her voice tries to break, but doesn't, because she _will not_ show that sort of weakness in front of him. "Better than never hearing from you. Better than--better than what thinking you were dead did to Clint."

At least Phil doesn't try to say anything; doesn't fill the silence with empty platitudes or false sentiment. He just stares at her, eyes wide.

"I'm tired of being angry-at you, at me. I'm so _sick_ of it. I hate what you did to Clint. And I know that he's forgiven you, and that I should, too, and I can't and I don't know how and you don't even try--"

She swallows hard. "I could have used you, Phil, you know? After--after everything, with Cassie, God, there were some days and all I could think about was how much I wished I could call you up and ask you for advice, or anything, and now you're here, you're alive, and I still can't."

He doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what she would want him to say, anyway.

"I've gotta get my boys back home," she finally says, scrubbing her hand across her face. God, she's tired. "But before I forget," she digs in her bag for the drive of intel David had managed to pull. "From David. Should give you some Hydra leads. And--" she pulls out a large thin square, wrapped in Cap-Shield paper. "This was supposed to be your birthday present from House Hawkeye before--" she shakes her head, shoves the items at him. "I don't have a record player, so take it."

She doesn't wait for him to open it, she doesn't care if he likes it or if being dead and then un-deaded changes your taste in music. This Phil sucks anyway, he probably doesn't have a completely lame and slightly endearing obsession with 4 Non Blondes. He probably doesn't do karaoke, either, or sing stupid Lady and the Tramp songs while making Italian food.

She doesn't care, anyway. She doesn't wonder how he came back to life. She doesn't think about if he lost part of himself in the process, the parts that remember who he was before, the part of him that taught her defensive driving with Tasha or dressed Lucky up like a dinosaur to visit Clint one time when he was in traction, or the part that got Clint and Tasha out of a mission to go to her high school graduation because her sister couldn't get away and her father was yachting with Wife #3 and somehow got the dates wrong. How they'd sat all stoic and terrifying until it was her turn to get her diploma and they'd been so fucking loud, Clint cawing like a lunatic--

She doesn't think about any of these things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, folks! Life just sort of...happened all at once. Also, this fic really took on a life on its own? When I posted the first chapter I thought I had most of it, all planned out, just needed some tweaking, and then it became this monster.
> 
> I once had a professor who said that Anton Chekov didn't write plays about people robbing banks, that he would write a play that took place in the café where all the robbers were sitting and talking after the robbery and I really feel like that's what happened here.


	14. Art History 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guess where you're not supposed to go without backup, Matt. GO ON. GUESS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Kate does not have her shit together nearly as much as she would have you believe.  
> I feel bad for not updating for so long--you get a chapter! You get a chapter! We're all getting chapters!!!!
> 
> Young Avengers angst ahoy--mentions of depression and canon character death.

The boys all somehow wind up following Kate once they reach New York.

Well, not somehow. It's just what they do, anymore. She doesn't know how much of is unconscious, this reticence to leave each other, but she doesn't honestly mind--because if you doze off and have a nightmare that every one on your team is dead, it's easier to be convinced of their alive-ness if they're actually right there.

She goes in to the office--because she's a professional, damn it, and it's not til they reach her office and Kate's saying hi to Kamala's wide-eyed incredulity that she realizes that they look like they wandered out of a post-apocalyptic gala.

"Did you get kicked out of Cirque du Soleil?" she asks Tommy, head tilted curiously. From any one else, that remark would read as sharp and sarcastic; from Kamala it's still sarcastic but there's an added layer of actual concern, and not for the first time Kate wonders how Kamala manages to be so positive. "Kate, are you okay?"

Kate looks down at herself-- _am I okay? Maybe?_ to see her scorched evening gown. She's got some bruises darkening on her upper arm, where Madam Masque had grabbed her and pulled her around, and a few burns, she thinks, but-- "Yeah, Kamala, I'm fine."

"Oh, good. I was a little worried."

"Yeah, Mr. Murdock called because you were," tired as she is, Kate's eyes narrow suddenly on Kamala. "Did you ask him to call?"

"Oh, sure," Kamala shuffles some papers and Kate honestly doesn't know if she's just reached the point of being tired where she's ridiculously paranoid. When was the last time she slept?

Teddy clears his throat behind her.

"Oh, right. Kamala, this is my team, David, Billy, Tommy, Teddy. Teddy, Kamala is the--"

"Right, right," he shoves past her with a smile, extending his hand. "Kamala, nice to meet you."

In the back of her head, she hopes they do dueling impressions. Kamala's got Tony Stark down to a _t_ , it's a little creepy.

"Knock knock," Foggy says from the door. "Oh, sorry, Kate. Didn't realize you had--"

"Just some friends, Foggy. Come in, if you want."

"Don't mean to impose," he says. "But all right."

Kate sees the moment Tommy sees that Foggy is holding food. "Any more bagels where that came from?"

"Sure, just--in our conference room," he gestures behind him to their office. "Where you been?"

"Out of the country," Kate reaches to rub her eyes but sees soot caught under her fingernails.

"Missed some exciting stuff."

"I bet," she mutters.

"We could use your help. We're tying to follow some money to this slumlord, Armand Tulley?"

"Tulley? Hey, I bought my building from him," Kate takes the file from Foggy. "Jackass, too."

"You what?" Foggy says, grabbing her elbow and dragging her over to Nelson & Murdock. "Karen, Kate's saying she bought her building from Armand Tulley, do we see anything about that?"

"What? No--Kate, has someone made an offer on your building?"

"I dunno. Maybe? I'm not interested in selling, so I don't really pay attention."

Karen and Foggy share a look that a portion of her brain deems as significant and also worrisome, and she starts to get a little less tired.

"Kate, that _was probably Fisk_ ," Karen waves a paper in front of her face, and-- _shit_ \--

“ _This_ is Fisk?” Kate snatches the paper out of Karen's hand. " _This_ is _Fisk_?"

“Yeah, what, do you know him?" Foggy looks a little curious.

“Fuck, I _knew_ I knew that name, shit _shit._ Where is he?”

"Who, Fisk?" Foggy asks, but Karen catches her meaning right off.

“He went to this art gallery, here, Fisk's girlfriend works there—“ Karen snaps the paper open, points to the gallery name. "Kate? What's wrong, do you _know_ Fisk?" she calls after Kate as she storms into her own office.

“Not exactly--oh, God _damn_ it,” she flings open her storage closet, pulling off what’s left of her evening dress, shoving through the hangers and the spare rig, tugging the dress she’s looking for off, kicking her shoes off, yanking on black tights to cover the giant burn on her shin. “Dumb, dumb, dumb me, I’m so stupid, ugh, how am I still alive?”

“Kate?” Billy pokes his head back into her office. “You ok—“

"I _know_ him--"

"Know him? _How_?" Might be Tommy who asks, she's not paying attention--

"That place we just got back from? The first time I was there."

David's eyes widen in understanding. "Ohhh," then, when it really hits him--"Wait, the auction part?"

“In one, now zip me up,” she pulls her hair up on the top of her head as Billy wrangles the zipper, slipping some flats into her purse next to her spare batons, bracing on Tommy as she slides her heels on. “Do I look like an heiress you should be afraid of?”

“You _are_ an heiress I’m afraid of,” Tommy says around a mouthful of bagel. “They’ve got great bagels over there. I think I’m going to hang out at their office instead of yours.”

“Oh my god, Tommy, that’s not helpful. Don’t cause trouble. Leave _immediately_ ,” she shouts behind her as she takes the stairs. "Do not pass go. Do not collect $200."

.

_What is the plan, what is the plan?_

She arrives at the gallery and can see Matt talking with a woman--Vanessa, that's her name, right? And Fisk, Fisk is there, shit, think faster, Hawkeye, should have listened to Hunter and slept on the plane, who knew you'd be going from one mission to the next? Don't act like you meant to meet him, wander with purpose--

"Matt?" pitch up, sound surprised.

"Kate-I didn't realize you were back in town."

"Vanessa," the woman says after a moment of awkward silence, extending her hand to Kate, who shakes it. "A _friend_ of yours, Matthew?" she says like it means something else, and Matt smiles awkwardly and shakes his head.

"Are you here looking for something in particular?" Vanessa smiles.

"A friend of mine--it's her birthday coming up. She didn't grow up with many nice things, and I think art would be a gift worth looking into. She's a difficult woman to buy gifts for," Kate shrugs, which is true. "But I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, though I can see I already have."

"Not at all," Vanessa assures her, all charm and poise.

"Wilson Fisk," Fisk introduces himself, broad hand reaching towards her.

"Kate Bishop."

"Not _Katherine_ Bishop?" Fisk presses. "Derek Bishop's youngest?"

Her smile freezes a little on her face.

“Unfortunately, one and the same.” Vanessa and Fisk laugh politely, missing the dry seriousness of her tone.

"I heard you were in California," he continues.

"Old information," she smiles at him, the Socialite Dazzler. "I've been back in the city for a year or so."

"Well, I can't even recall who I heard that from, so you're probably right-I've never been much good at gossiping," and his smile is bland enough and polite enough that she almost believes he doesn't remember.

She manages to not jump when Matt's hand grips her elbow and squeezes.

"I don't know if we should be talking, though," Matt says to Fisk. "We're on opposite sides of a tenancy case."

"The rental properties I recently acquired from Mr. Tulley," he says as an aside to Vanessa.

"And I do actually need to hie Mr. Murdock away," Kate smiles. "I was just on my way to his office, so if you don't mind me stealing him from you?"

"Of course," Fisk says with a nod.

"Have you changed your mind about what you came for?" Vanessa is all polite concern.

"I would just need to consider the cost," he deflects as Kate reaches over her elbow to grip his wrist, steering Matt away from Fisk and Vanessa, out the door and up the stairs--she can feel him seething next to her, hand tightening on her elbow, the other squeezing the top of his cane so tight she can hear the poor grip squeak in protest.

“Walk it off, Murdock,” she says through her teeth. “Walk it off.”

"You mind telling me what that was? Kate?" he grits out, his hand moving down to press his fingers against the inside of her wrist. "What's wrong? Your pulse is racing and your heartbeat is fast, even for you."

"Even for me? What does that mean?" She has the sudden and overwhelming desire to shoot something--did a whole job and didn't get to shoot once, what a waste, didn't even get to kick someone or punch somebody. She clenches and unclenches her fist, and Matt notices because of course he does—he probably feels a kinship to her and her sudden desire to beat the shit out of something.

His head is tilted a little. “Come on,” he says a second before she’s about to tell him to go screw himself and then maybe go buy seventy bucks worth of pastries and crawl into a vent to eat them. “We’re making a pit-stop before we go back.” He grips her elbow and steers her down the street, his hold firm enough that she knows he’s serious but not so hard she couldn’t break out of it with minimal fuss.

.

“Here we are,” he says, pulling her to a stop outside a ratty-looking gym.

“Fogwell’s?” she tries not to sound too incredulous. “They aren’t even open, Matt.”

“Never are on Mondays,” he says, digging in his pocket to produce a key. “The owner and I have an understanding.”

“I don’t know if I’m impressed or worried,” she says as he ushers her in, turning on a few of the lights, illuminating a boxing ring and some bags, letting her read some of the old posters on the walls.

“Creel versus Murdock,” she trails her fingers over that one. “Battlin’ Jack…Matt, this was your dad’s gym?”

“Mine, now,” he shrugs, and God, if she wasn’t so tired and mad at everyone she might be able to figure out if that means something. “Go ahead. Punch something.”

“I’m wearing heels and a dress,” she points out.

“The weird thing about shoes is that you can take them off. Go ahead.”

He huffs out a sigh when she doesn’t move, crosses the gym to rummage around in a dark corner and returns with some wraps. “Hand,” he tells her.

She holds her hand out but growls a little as he does it so he knows she’s not pleased. She gives him her left hand and he starts to wrap it for her, under-over-around-around, it’s a little mesmerizing.

A little dizzying, too, as he starts on her right hand. Good lord is she tired though.

He sits on a ringside bench. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not amused.”

He doesn’t respond.

“I don’t need to hit anything. I’m fine.” She pushes at the bag with her fist, just for something to do. “Totally fine.”

“Okay, Totally Fine—can I ask why you felt it necessary to drag me out of the gallery?”

“There was no dragging,” she mutters. “I saw a picture of Fisk. And I recognized him.”

“From where?”

She gives the bag a punch, just for kicks. “At an auction attended by terrorists and crime bosses. He’s not exactly small potatoes.”

“I don’t think he recognized you.”

“Great, thanks,” she punches the bag again, though not with anything nearing enthusiasm. “He wouldn’t. I was disguised as someone else.” Another punch, more silence from Matt. “Can you not do that, anymore? The whole ninja first, ask questions later? It’s really annoying.”

Annoying isn't quite the right word but she can't think of a better one right now and he doesn’t answer, which is, hello, _rude_ , that was not a rhetorical question.

"I mean, that's why cops have partners and agents have handlers, it's common sense, okay, because-"

Her phone rings.

“Hello—David? What’s up--?”

“Kate, we need to talk.”

“Okay. Listening.”

“We just got to your apartment building? The one that you _purchased_?”

Oh. Well.

“Kate, can you come here? We need to talk about this. This is—why didn’t you tell u—“

She hangs up.

“Fuck literally everything about this day.” She leans her forehead against the bag.

“Just. Fuck. Everything. So what?” she punches the bag with some feeling this time. “So what if I bought an apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen? It’s my money. It’s not their business. They don’t have to live here. It’s not like it’s their fault.” A few more punches, sharp and hard; she likes the way her muscles burn.

“It’s not like it’s their fault she died here. That’s mine, that one’s on me. And if I decide to buy the building she died in front of? Still none of their business, right? I mean, I'm not going to let the people she died protecting get fucked over by some slumlord with a Napoleon complex. They survived an alien attack, okay, they deserve better than that.”

The bag is swinging—has she been hitting it this whole time? Must be.

“And while we’re at it, fuck SHIELD, too. And fuck Phil. We think you’re dead for two goddamn years and you can’t be bothered to tell people who care about you you’re fine, not like that would have been nice to know when I was trying to keep Clint from blowing his own brains out, no, no, or when I was dealing with Clint’s PTSD and my PTSD and _my entire team’s_ PTSD and the fact that I killed Cassie, and I could have used that support, no, he calls when he _needs_ something. What about when I needed him? When my world was falling down around my ears, where was he? _Where was he?_ " she punches and punches and punches. She _knows_ it's probably not the best way to deal with her guilt, she knows that everyone seems to think she should be better, somehow, now.

It was too much, all at once; she remembers the first year anniversary of the battle, she remembers staring at Eli and Tommy in a dingy diner and saying _I don't have any idea what I did this year,_ and they'd chuckled because they'd thought she was kidding when it was the truth, that there were whole chunks of weeks she wasn't aware of, conversations she'd had with them that she can't recall. But Clint was alive, Clint was okay, he'd laughed the day before, so she knows she must have been doing something right.

And Eli had said _it's not your fault_ and she knew it was a lie, even if he didn't, and it's a--

“--lie they keep telling me because it is my fault, I'm the one who let her go alone, who told her she'd be fine until Eli got to her, so of course it is, it’s my fault—“

“Kate—“

A hand reaches for her and she knocks it away, swings a punch that gets blocked and caught—

“Kate, it’s Matt. It’s okay.”

“Matt?” Her mouth and her brain and her body are all working at different speeds--she swings another punch and aims a kick that he both dodges and catches, using his grip on her wrist to pull her closer so it's harder for her to get momentum behind her hits before her brain finally manages to tell her body _Matt is safe. He is not here to hurt you._

He tugs a little and she collides with him, his arms crossing her back. Her face is pressed to his chest, and she can feel as much as hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.

"Hey, it's okay. I've got you," his hand presses against the back of her head and she thinks they might be rocking or swaying, and she slumps against him.

"I'm so tired," she mumbles.

"Yeah, I can tell," hooks his chin over the top of her head. "When was the last time you slept?"

"A day before you called? I don't know."

Probably three days, all told, fueled by adrenaline and caffeine and anger. She rubs her face against his chest; she could fall asleep right here, standing up, but Matt's an okay guy and somehow seats her on the bench, grabbing his cane, taking a few long strides to the corner of the gym, and swinging his cane so hard it whistles through the air, that's weird, right?

"Dude, what the hell?" Teddy shouts, blocking the blow as he and the rest of her team suddenly appear in a flicker of blue light. "How--what?"

Kate lays down on the bench and closes her eyes with a sigh. "David, did you track my phone?"

A pause.

"Yes?"

"Matt, this is my team," she doesn't bother to open her eyes. "Billy, how long have you guys been hiding in here?"

"Long enough," Tommy mutters.

Kate yawns.

"I'm going to take a cat nap and then I'm going to pull your tonsils out through your nose."

"Which one of us?" Tommy presses after a moment.

"Billy," she decides.

"Thank goodness I've had my tonsils removed already, then," he says.

She loses track of the conversation, just catching raised voices and angry tones, and good _god_ why can you all not just deal with your own problems? She peels her eyes open and crosses to them, shouldering between Matt and Teddy.

"What's the issue, gentlemen?" she says, closing her eyes again.

"I want to know how he did that," Teddy pushes against her so she pushes back.

"I would be interested in that answer as well," Matt pulls out his Man-in-the-Mask voice.

"And I'd like an air duct and a pillow but we can't always get what we want, now can we? _Nobody_ start singing," she warns.

"Can we just focus for a minute?" Billy says, turning her so she's facing him. "Kate, you know that's not true, right?"

"No, it is," her forehead wrinkles in confusion. "You _can't_ always get what you want."

"No--Kate, look, I know you're tired, but I need you to focus. It's important. Please."

She shakes her head and tries to pull herself together, because that is Billy's Serious Voice, the one she thinks is probably going to be his Demiurge Voice at some untold point in the future.

She stares at him hard for a second, blinks, shakes her head. "Okay. Go."

"Cassie dying _wasn't your fault._ I don't know how else to say it. Nobody blames you."

"Well, you should," she snaps.

"Why?" David crosses his arms over his chest and glares at her. "Because you couldn't predict an alien spaceship falling right in the area she was in? Because--"

"Because I should have ordered her to hold her position until she got backup! I should have-"

Tommy starts laughing, of all the ridiculous things. "Kate," he says, sobering at the expression on her face. "Do you really think Cassie would have taken an _order_? Sometimes I feel like you forget how reckless she could be. She was playing with Pym particles as a _kid,_ before she even met us. Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly think she'd have listened to you, if you'd told her to fall back."

 "I--" Kate shuts her mouth. Opens it again. Closes it.

Four pairs of eyes stare expectantly at her.

"Oh." she says.

And then she's buried under a tangle of arms, and she thinks that maybe, someday, she'll believe them. 

.

She doesn't realize Matt's not with them until they reach her apartment.

"Where'd Matt go?" she asks as David swings her off of his back and on to her bed.

"Boxer guy?" He asks. "Dunno. He kind of vanished right before we puppypiled you."

"What was that about, anyway?" Teddy calls from her living room.

"He was bein' a dumbass," she says mostly to her pillow, prompting Billy to utter what has to be the most melodramatic gasp she's heard in a month.

" _Oh my god_ ," he says. "Do you mean to tell me that Blind Lawyer Boxer Guy is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

"I didn't tell you anything of the sort," Kate protests.

"Wait, what?" Tommy, maybe.

"Kate's got a crime-fighting boyfriend," Billy informs them, flopping next to her on the bed, tugging her over so David can climb in, too.

"Have not," she mumbles.

"Sorry, not like a boyfriend who fights crime, but, like, a person she goes on crime fighting dates with, right?"

"You're seeing other teams?" David sounds mildly offended, which, well, har-de-har- _har_.

"One person does not a team make, David," Teddy says from Billy's other side, and everyone winces as Tommy throws himself over their feet.

"He really blind then?" Billy asks. She thinks Teddy kicks at him a little.

"OMG, Billy, you can't just ask people if they're blind," Tommy snaps.

David kicks him for that, which Kate is grateful for since otherwise she would have had to do it and she's pretty comfy all told.

"It's okay, Hawkeye," David says. "We've got you. Go to sleep."

"Don't tell me what to do," she replies, or tries and fails to, because Billy just pats her head and says, "Tell us when you wake up."

.

She's still tired a few hours later, and her body hurts from so little sleep, but she feels clearer and lighter than she has in a while. There's a repeat of the conversation from the gym and some hugging and then she kicks them all out because they've got lives and she doesn't need them mother-henning her, that's her job.

She eats some of the food David'd left, takes a shower and feels like a new person, and gets ready to fall back into her bed when, on a whim, she unlocks her window and goes _tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, scratch-scratch, tap-scratch, scratch, scratch._ She curls up in bed and waits.

It's maybe seven minutes later when there's a polite rap on her window, and it's being opened and Matt lands on her floor with soft feet.  

"Did you just tap out _Hi Matt_ in Morse code?" he says it almost disbelievingly.

"Were you listening for me to tap out _hi Matt_ in Morse code?" she challenges.

"No--one of your--Billy," he corrects. "Billy called to let me know they were all heading out of town, asked me to check up on you in the morning."

"Is it morning already?"

"Not for a few hours," he smiles a little awkwardly at her.

"I'd apologize," Kate shrugs as best she can while laying on her side, "But I think maybe I needed to have that happen, so, thanks, I guess."

"Then you're welcome, I guess."

"Where'd you go?" she asks, patting mattress until he sits next to her.

He hesitates before he says, "Church," and Kate's not sure she believes him. He's silent for a while before he finally says, "I guess I can understand why you hate when I do stuff alone."

"If it makes you feel any better," she sighs, "It's not just you."

He shifts a little, looking uncomfortable, and Kate wonders if that wasn't exactly a polite thing to say. "I mean," she tries again. "It's you inasmuch as I like you alive and not not-alive, but it's not you in that it doesn't reflect as much on you as it does on me. That almost made sense, right?"

He smiles a little at her.

"Almost," he agrees, and his hand reaches out and brushes a damp strand of hair from her face. "Good night, Kate."

"You could stay, if you want," she tosses back the covers.

She expects him to decline, or argue a little, or ask questions she doesn't feel like answering now, his brow furrowed in something that looks a little like concern, before the corner of his lips twitch up and he toes off his boots, climbing in.

She closes her eyes and lets Matt's added warmth soothe her. She thinks she feels the heat from his hand over her face, but he must pull his hand back because after a moment it's gone.

"You're doing okay, though?" he asks.

"I might be getting there," she sighs out. "You know what it's like, to miss someone so much it hurts?"

He hesitates for a moment. "Yeah."

"Cassie was my best friend. And she was--she led with her heart, you know? Instinct. Not the kind of person to weight the pros and cons of a situation--at least, not to excess. She would decide what to do and go do it. I think she'd have liked you. I think the two of you would have made me weep into my coffee every morning for fear of my sanity-but I think she would have liked you."

"She died during the Battle of New York?"

"In the street, right out front," Kate feels a little empty as she says it. "Honestly, I still don't get how--I guess the Chitauri surprised her, or something, and--" her throat closes around the words and Matt reaches over and squeezes her shoulder. "We just wanted to help, you know? We had the abilities and the skills and the experience to help. And after, we get pulled into a windowless room and get vaguely threatened by SHIELD for violating our terms of operation, or something, I don't even remember anymore. And Cassie just became another civilian casualty, because me and my team weren't even supposed to exist. We reduced the number of civilian casualties where we were by seventy percent. And we got in trouble for it."

She lets out a deep sigh and Matt keeps his hand curled over her arm. "I don't like talking about it."

"Really, I can't imagine why."

Another sigh.

"Make sure nobody tries to attack the building while I'm asleep, okay?"

"You got it, Hawkeye."

"Because that's a thing. It's a thing that happens. A thing that happens to Hawkeyes--"

"Kate, shut up and go to sleep."

She cracks an eye open to see his faint smile in the illumination from the streetlight, his hair sticking up all crazy and reminding her inexplicably of a bunny.

"Fine. Bossy."

He smiles a little wider before composing himself.

She just getting ready to drift off when someone in the back of her head goes _hey did you notice Matt has really nice lips_ and she doesn't even have time to think _wait what fuck no why_ before she's asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Young Avengers Puppypile. I have no regrets.
> 
> I feel like after the Battle of New York, the Young Avengers were in this just massive pillow fort in Clint's living room (because that's where Kate was) and they just puppypiled for like three months until SHIELD was like yeah okay you can leave the city now.


	15. Breathe In, Bleed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why does being a human being who fights crime at night outside the purview of the law not come with an instruction manual? Maybe Bishop Publishing could print something useful like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author is a slightly repentant trash can.  
> Mentions of canon character injury, blood, and questionable medical practices.
> 
> Comments are rainbows in the storm of life, and you have all kept me smiling, so thank you.

When Kate wakes up it is still dark, or—as she checks her phone—dark _again_. She putters around her kitchen, feeling oddly content but she's not really sure why. Settled.

She’s alone, but considering she slept through a whole day, that’s not exactly surprising—Murdock has a job, and all. Of course, she has a job, too—thank whoever for having stuff scheduled tomorrow and not today.

**Hawkeye: ps how dare you quote mean girls in my home**

**Tommy Boy: really 12 hours later slowing down in your old age mon capitan**

She's tapping out a text to David when her phone rings—

"Kamala? What’s up?"

"Mr. Murdock, you know, the lawyer? Well, um, I think he's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen guy and he just washed up from the river, he looks in pretty bad shape—looked—where'd he go? He was just here, I swear—"

Kate's slinging her quiver over her shoulder and stuffing her feet in shoes before she even has a chance to think. "In Jersey?"

"No, not too far from the office, I was, um, doing a thing—“

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know, he was just here, busted up real bad, too, I had to pull him in I just thought it was somebody drowning but he wasn’t and he had cuts _all over_ —“

"Kamala, go home. Don't try and find him, and _get out of Hell's Kitchen,_ okay? Can you do that? Or are you in the middle of something?"

A pause.

"It can wait. I can do that. What are you going to do? You sure you don’t need help?"

"I’m going to find him, and no, I don’t think I’ll need help. Thank you, Kamala. Stay safe."

"You, too, Hawkeye."

.

 She heads for Matt's apartment via rooftops, hoping that he'll be there already or that she'll be able to catch sight of him before someone else does—if he’s moving he can’t be in such bad shape, and if Kamala didn’t see him for that long, then there’s a chance she just overreacted—either way, if there’s even a possibility that Fisk is behind this, Kate would prefer to have her _teenaged superpowered intern_ as far away as possible from potential turf wars and beatings. At least, far away from ones Kamala herself hasn’t started. 

There’s a light on in Matt’s apartment by the time she gets there, which is unnerving enough, although it could just mean Claire is already there; she comes in through the roof, arrow-first anyway—not like Claire will be offended.

Except the person she sees Matt take a swing at is too bulky and too blond to be Claire, and Matt is collapsing to the floor so Kate aims.

“First one’s through your hand, the second’s through your eye,” she informs the intruder—who—

“Foggy? Christ, I was gonna shoot you.” She jumps down from the landing to land in a crouch next to the men, rolling Matt over and sucking in air when she takes in the damage. “Jesus, Murdock, you dumbass, how many fucking times, how many, _always have backup_.”

“What?” Foggy says a little numbly. “ _What?_ I was trying to call the hospital and he just—he just—“

“Foggy, look how he’s dressed, do you really want to have to explain this to the authorities?” She fumbles for Matt’s phone and tosses it to Foggy. “Call Claire, tell her Matt’s hurt, okay? Foggy! _Now!_ ”

She lets Foggy handle that mess while she checks Matt over to see if she can stop the bleeding—only to realize that there’s no bleeding to stop, which, given that he was pulled unconscious from the river and stumbled home with massive injuries, is a little— _not_ comforting. Kate has a sinking feeling that the reason he’s not bleeding is because there’s no more blood in him.

“She’s on her way,” Foggy kneels next to her. “Should we—I dunno—move him?”

“Not till Claire gets here,” her hands flutter uselessly over Matt, gripping his wrist to feel his whisper-thin pulse. “God, a girl sleeps for a day and the world goes to shit,” she fills the silence, she has to, because if she doesn’t she’ll realize how familiar this feels and be useful to approximately no one as she quickly and quietly goes crazy in a corner.

“Kate, what the fuck is going on?” Foggy grabs her arm, and it’s instinct to grab him back, give his wrist a sharp twist.

“Sorry,” she drops his hand as his eyes widen. “Habit.”

“Who _are_ you? Why do you have a bow and arrow? What, are you cosplaying Hawkeye or something?”

“Or something,” she mutters. “Did I miss something today? What _happened_?”

“What do you mean, what happened?”

“I mean, did somebody get kidnapped or a building get set on fire? What pissed you off so bad you went headfirst into a fight?” _Into a trap,_ she thinks, but Foggy’s having a hard enough time keeping it together so she doesn’t say it.

“Mrs. Cardenas, this older woman—the tenancy case, with Armand Tulley? She was found stabbed outside her apartment building today. She was—we didn’t-”

“That would be it,” she mutters. “Well played, Fisk.”

“Fisk? What does he have to do with this? And why aren’t you freaking out more?”

“Fisk has everything to do with this,” Kate says vaguely as she cards through Matt’s hair, gently probing to see if there are any lumps.

“Who _are_ you?” Foggy asks again.

“Kate Bishop,” she says, and thankfully Claire chooses that moment to bang into the apartment.

And Claire is a wonder, Claire is an actual superhero, her competent calm filling the room, her voice even and calm, and Kate decides if she’s ever dying in her living room, she’d trust Claire to keep her from punching out.

“You,” Claire says to Foggy. “I don’t know who you are, but cut his shirt off.”

Foggy does so as she peels back Matt’s eyelids and takes his pulse, listens to his heart.

“He’s going into shock,” she says. “Hawkeye, you wouldn’t happen to have some plasma on you?”

“Sorry, left it in my other quiver,” Kate snaps. “Hang on, I’ve got someone I can call—“

“Can they get it here in five minutes or less?” Claire snaps right back. “Because we don’t exactly have a lot of time here.”

Kate stares at her a beat before rolling up her sleeve. “I’m clean and O-neg. Will that work?”

Claire looks at her, eyes wide, head tilted, probably weighing the risks, before grabbing needles and gloves. “Don’t try this at home, kids. Move him over, by the couch,” she directs, and Foggy and Kate maneuver him as gently as they can.

Claire is brutally efficient, and thirty seconds later Kate’s blood is getting siphoned into Matt. “Welcome to 1909,” she jokes, but Claire doesn’t smile.

“Hands steady?”

Kate scoffs. “Are they ever not?”

“Great, you’re going to assist.” She hands her medical kit off to Kate. “Alcohol.”

“Yes, please,” Kate responds, but hands Claire the alcohol.

Kate watches Claire’s hands hand gives her things as she asks for them—scissors, sutures, needle, swabs, forceps, not necessarily in that order but everything just starts to blur as Claire puts Matt back together again—the minutes melting together, things getting a little hazier as time wears on—

“Foggy, right?” she hears Claire say. “Kate, needle. Foggy, get her something to eat.”

There’s a pressure at Kate’s arm and Claire pressing something to her elbow and bending it for her. “Hold that there. Scissors.”

“Scissors.”

“Gauze.”

“Gauze.”

“Tape.”

Claire looks down, surveying her handiwork. “Thank you, Nurse Hawkeye.”

“My pleasure, Doctor Temple,” Kate frowns since Claire’s a little blurry around the edges. “We’re totally MASH right now.”

“Okay, then, Captain Pierce,” Claire says easy enough. “Let’s move him to the couch, think you can help me with that?”

Kate scoffs and then almost falls over when she goes to help Claire lift. “Did he get really heavy or did my arms get really weak?”

Claire groans a little and they get him up.

“I probably gave him a little too much of your blood. Sorry. Make sure you eat a lot in the next few days and try not to bleed.”

“Are you kidding?” Kate slides to the floor, leaning against the couch. “A medical professional just told me to eat a lot, don’t be sorry.”

“Here,” Foggy presses a glass of orange juice into her hands, along with a plate of some deli-sliced ham. “He didn’t have a lot in the way of food.”

Kate nods, because this makes sense, Matt doesn’t seem to have taken the adage ‘always be prepared’ to heart. “I think we all know who _wasn’t_ a boy scout,” she nods, gulping down some juice. “Yup. I think we _all_ know who that is. Isn’t. Is?”

.

“Kate!” something soft and small hits the side of her head.

It’s a pair of socks.

“Wh—“ she tries to say, but her mouth is full.

“You fell asleep in the middle of eating,” Claire says voice flat. “I didn’t want to have to do the Heimlich on you. This has been enough excitement for one evening.”

Kate chews and swallows and nods. “Is it still evening?”

“Morning,” Foggy’s voice comes rough from the kitchen. “Half-past six.”

Kate groans.

“Well, kids, it’s been fun,” Claire sighs. “I have to be at work in twenty. Call the hospital and have them tell me it’s an emergency if something happens, all right? He seems stable. And you,” she crouches in front of Kate. “Eat and rest. If I have to come back to stitch you up, too, I’m going to be very upset.”

“Claire,” Kate doesn’t bother to open her eyes as she says it. “When have you _ever_ had to patch me up?”

“From what I hear, this is an exception, not the rule.”

“What you _hear,_ ” Kate grumbles. “Bunch’a blabbermouth Avengers besmirching my good name.” She yawns and stretches. “I gotta go too. Foggy, you gonna be good for a few hours? I’ll try to get back before noon.” She uses Claire as a counterweight when she stands and nearly topples back over, her leg pins and needles.

“Yeah. I think I can manage,” Foggy glares at the couch. “Go ahead. I’ll call if we need anything.”

.

“Is he--?”

“He’ll live,” Kate cuts Kamala off as she stumbles into her office. “What you did—last night—“

“I know you said—“

Kate holds up her hand. “You may have saved his life. Don’t apologize. Just. Just.” There’s a word there, but Kate’s too tired to even try to find it.

“Have backup?”

“Stay out of Hell’s Kitchen for a week or so. It’s one thing if you’re getting into fights you’ve started and another if you stumble into ours.”

“Okay. Um—Kate? Is that your blood?”

Kate looks down at her clothes. “Probably? But it was Matt’s before it came out like this.”

“What?” Kamala ushers her into the back office, starts rifling through the spare clothes. “Um, _what_?”

“He needed blood.”

“You were a match? How would you know that? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Yes to the dangerous question. I’m everybody’s match—no, go back. I need stuff with structure today so I don’t fall over.”

“You sure you don’t want me to cancel?”

Kate suddenly has a thought. “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

“Teacher in-service.”

Kate hopes she is glaring, but she’s so tired for all she knows her eyes are just crossing. “I hope that’s true because I don’t want to stand in the way of your education.”

“This is part of my education.”

“I have a witty response to that somewhere, but I seemed to have misplaced it.”

“I’ll make a note of that.”

“If I wasn’t so tired I would fire you right now.”

“Whatever you say, Hawkeye.”

“Can you get me something to eat? At least now I know how a car feels when you siphon gas from it.”

“Cool. You have ten minutes before your first meeting.”

Miraculously, Kate stays conscious for all of it.

.

“I need some air,” Foggy blows past her, slamming the door behind him. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

“Hi and bye,” Kate is too tired to come up with anything better than that, hopes Matt is sleeping so she doesn’t have to be not-angry at him—

“Kate?”

So much for that.

“Holla,” she calls, leaning against the wall as she strips off her coat and untangles herself from her scarf. “How are you feeling?”

He’s sitting up and wearing clothes, which is impressive considering he was mostly dead the last time she saw him.

“Like I got ripped to shreds by a ninja,” he tries a smile on but it doesn’t suit. “Did Foggy call you? How did you-know?”

"Kamala called. I don't know what you owe her, but you owe her something _huge_ ," Kate says flatly, sitting across from him, hands shoved deep into her pockets.

"Your intern?" he says, sounding a little befuddled. "I feel like I saw her last night?"

"Because you did," Kate thinks she does a pretty good job of not losing her shit. She thinks she could almost pass as calm. "She was hanging around town last night—honestly, I try not to ask, sometimes—and she _pulled you half-dead out of the fucking river_."

Okay, so maybe she's not doing a good job of keeping it together.

"She did?"

"She did. My _teenaged intern_ saved your dumb ass. So she called me and while she was calling me you started to stumble home. Apparently."

"That explains why you were here. Foggy—knows about you. I think."

Kate can’t think of anything polite to say so she says nothing.

“You had him call Claire?”

“It seemed the prudent thing to do, what with you all soaked and corpse-like in your living room.”

They fall silent again, Matt shifting on the couch.

“Are you going to say something, or are you going to sit there and seethe at me?”

“I’m trying to come up with a sentence that isn’t half swearing, okay? Give me a minute.”

She doesn’t manage to come up with anything by the time Foggy gets back.

.

Kate knocks, then unlocks, hoping that Clint is a.) not naked, and b.) has pizza.

“Katie-Kate?” he scrubs at his face. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong? Why does something have to be wrong? I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Oh, _thanks_.”

“Katie.”

“I’m fine.”

“ _Katie.”_

“I’m not fine!” bursts out of her, and Clint shakes his head as he walks toward her, pulling her into a hug that she resists for all of two seconds. She wraps her arms around Clint; the warm mass of him, smelling like sweat and cheap shower gel and New York in the fall.

He shuffles them over to the counter, where he scrabbles around for a hearing aid, putting it in and then pulling back to look at her.

“Okay, lay it on me. Do I need to go beat somebody up?”

Which is ridiculous enough that Kate can’t suppress the eye roll.

“I know, I know,” Clint holds up his hands in surrender. “You’re perfectly capable of beating people up on your own. It is a _gesture_ of _solidarity_.”

“Thanks.”

“Spill.”

She presses her lips together, which prompts Clint to huff and gently grab the base of her ponytail, using it to nod her head. “’Yes Clint, I would love to tell you what’s bothering me, you’re aawwe-some’. Thanks, Kate, I appreciate that.”

She butts his chest with her head, partially so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye for another minute and partially because she just likes a reminder that Clint is solid and present. She presses into him before pulling back with a sigh.

“The guy. The one who pulled you from the dumpster?”

“The guy you’ve been running around Hell’s Kitchen with. I know who you’re talking about, yeah.”

“He, ah,” she squints into one of the lights. “Um, almost died last night. Early this morning? He’s fine. He’s totally fine. I had to give him a few pints of my blood—“

“That was nice of you.”

“I know, right? But he, um,” she blinks fast, shakes her head and tries to step away from Clint. Who doesn’t let her, jerkfaced butthead—“He’s fine. I’m just—I don’t get why I’m so upset, you know? I just want to rip his stupid head off and that’s exactly the opposite of what I should want to do, right?”

“Generally speaking.” Clint sits her down and slides a bowl of pretzels towards her.

“I mean, he’s fine,” she shoves a pretzel in her mouth. “He doesn’t even have any holes in his chest. Like, in his side, but not his chest. Totally fine.”

“Sounds like.”

“I mean, it’s not as if I thought he was going to, you know, _die_ right in front of me. He’s not dead, so I can say ‘death’ and ‘die’ it’s fine.” She swipes at the wetness on her cheek, stupid Clint’s stupid dusty apartment. “I barely like the guy.”

“Clearly.”

“I mean, if he wants to self-destruct, who am I to stop him? I don’t owe him anything,” another pretzel, maybe if she puts enough food in her mouth, she’ll stop talking. “He’s just some guy.”

Clint tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at her. And for a man who can’t always keep his pants tied and would live on pizza if he could, he has very eloquent facial expressions. His eyebrows hitch a little higher, and she can _see_ him think _you referenced Cassie and Phil tell me again how fine you are and how ambivalent you are about this guy, Hawkeye_ which is such an awful thing to say, Clint. He shakes his head a little at her.

She shakes her head back _I am totally ambivalent about this guy_ , and he frowns, just a little, _liar liar pants on fire,_ so she shakes her head at him again, something hot and wet splashing on to her collarbone which means Clint’s apartment is leaking because _this is not happening._

Except Clint sort of half-frowns at her and says, “Aww, crying, _no_ ,” pulling her back into a hug, which means that it’s absolutely happening.

“How do I cancel my subscription to feelings?” she says into his chest.

“I’m pretty sure that’s a question for Stark.”

.

Kate feels prepared to deal once she’s spent some time at Clint’s. She’s not in a rush to get back, though, stops by to say hi to Tasha—who looks her up and down and says, “You’re a few pints low,” which frankly makes her sound like a vampire or a serial killer not to mention is _hella creepy_ —and to grab some food for the Dumbass of Hell’s Kitchen.

She comes in through the front door like a real person and everything, not climbing up the fire escape to come in via the roof, just unlocking the door with the key she’d lifted earlier.

“Hello?” she says into the dark. “Foggy?”

“Foggy stormed out about an hour ago,” Matt says from the couch. “Sorry to disappoint.”

She knows that tone of voice. Not so much from Matt—Clint and Eli and Billy, she’s heard it from them. She doesn’t have a name for it, just a general feeling of dread and _your life is going to get fucked up so bad because I am bad at being a human person._

“Well. Good. More food for us.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.”

“Why are you even here? I didn't ask for your help," he snaps; at least, she’s assuming he was trying to snap at her, it really just comes out sort of defeated and gasp-y, like he’s having a hard time breathing. "I never have."

"Well, maybe that's your problem _._ " She pulls the paper box of cookies out of her pocket, from Claire care of Natasha, shoves one whole in her mouth.

"Are you _eating_?"

“So are you,” she shoves a container into his hands, spoon on top. “Soup. Eat it. Please,” she says as an afterthought. “I'm not sharing the cookies, though. Claire even wrote a little note that says I'm supposed to eat all of them _myself_ and not share. I did give blood this morning."

Matt freezes with the spoon halfway to his mouth. “What?” She can see him thinking about her day, cataloging—all the shit he can hear, and smell, and whatever, and adding that to his scrambled memories of last night; she can see the exact moment it hits him, the way his head tilts and his body—she doesn’t know how to describe it. Shivers, maybe, or winces?—but it doesn’t seem like an uncomfortable motion, so that’s something. "That is—"

"Medically not super safe, but it was easier than literally robbing a blood bank or a hospital with no plan, no time, and no backup. I'm O-neg. Don't worry. I haven't used a dirty needle, in, like, a week. Claire was reluctant to do it, but you were also looking pretty dead—"

She vehemently shoves another cookie in her mouth.

Don't think about it.

Don't

think

about

“Sorry. I guess I figured Foggy would have told you.”

“We didn’t really talk about last night that much.”

“You mind filling me in on your part of last night?” She slouches some more in the chair as he pops the lid off of the soup, letting the steam curl around his face.

“Not much to tell.”

“Don’t insult me.”

He avoids responding by putting a spoonful of soup in his mouth, so Kate guesses she’ll take it.

“Foggy said something about an older woman, Mrs. Cardenas? Getting killed. So I guess Fisk got tired of waiting for you. Battue.”

“Battue?”

“In hunting—it’s when you use sticks to scare animals into a,” her stupid voice catches, “a kill zone. So,” she clears her throat. “Was it Fisk, or did he hire some people to do it, like last time?”

“Nobu,” he finally says, stuttering a little around the name. “A ninja, I think.”

“A ninja. That’s great.”

“And Fisk was there, at the end. He—I think he said he’d wanted us to kill each other off.”

“You killed this Nobu guy?” she tries to say it gently, not accusing him, not trying to, anyway.

“I’m not sure. He got drenched in an oil of some sort and I used a lightbulb to set him on fire. I was,” he presses a hand into his mangled side. “Pretty beat up by that point. I’m not sure.”

Coming from the man who can tell when she’s stubbed her toe three streets away, Kate’s not entirely sure she believes him; but, again, half-dead, so.

“And then, what, Fisk shows up to gloat?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, wait, seriously? That’s— _ugh_.”

“I tried to—I attacked him,” he corrects himself. “He’s strong. Physically. He got a few hits in. And then I managed to jump out of a window.”

“Into the river that my intern pulled you out of.”

“Right. And then I got in here, somehow—I don’t remember up until I woke up with Foggy here.”

“We called Claire,” Kate supplies, rubbing her forehead with her hand. “She patched you up, I gave you some blood because you were apparently running dangerously low, and then she and I stayed until we had to go to work. Which brings us to right now.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

…

This is wrong.

Kate is standing outside her apartment. The air seems thick and sour, muddy, almost, but still. Like the calm before the storm.

And she’s not armed, which is unfortunate.

There’s a noise like a car skidding out behind her, and when she turns and looks, she sees Matt in his crime-fighting garb, mask pushed up so she can see his face.

Which he doesn't really do, not out in the street like this. His lips are moving but she can't hear him, and when she puts her hand to her ear it comes away wet with blood. _At least I know how to sign,_ she thinks, before Matt frowns and gashes start to appear on him, ripping his shirt and his skin, blood pouring out and dripping past his hands as he tries to stop the bleeding—but it’s too much and he crumples and she’s _so slow_ getting to him, not nearly fast enough—

She holds him, pushing her hands against the flow of blood gushing out of him, over and around and through her fingers.

"C’mon!” She shouts. “C’mon! Don’t do this! _Don’t do this!_ Somebody help!”

Someone kneels across from her, hands entering her field of view, trying to pull her away from Matt.

"You can't save him." The voice is familiar. “It’s too late.”

Kate looks up, and relief and horror wash through her in equal measures:

It’s Cassie.

But Cassie can’t be here, right? She doesn’t remember why, exactly, but she’s pretty sure Cassie can’t be here right now.

Kate yanks her hands out of Cassie's grip, presses them back into Matt's stomach. "I can. I can do this, Cassie."

"Kate," Cassie grabs her hands again, holding them in a firm grip that she can’t get out of. "You couldn't save your mother. You couldn't save me. You couldn't even save yourself. Why do you think you can keep anyone else safe?" Her voice is kind, gentle even, as she says it, ignoring the bleeding hole in her chest. "Just give up, Kate. What's the point? Everybody has to leave you, you know.”

Matt is gone now, and it's Cassie bleeding out in front of her, all kindness gone from her voice. "Why didn't you save me? I _trusted_ you, Kate!"

"This isn't real, this is a dream," Kate realizes with a lurch, all the same still unable to stop her hands from trying to stop Cassie’s body from pumping all of her blood out onto the pavement. "You're not real. You're dead. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—" she's crying, it hurts so bad, like someone's punched through her ribs and pulled out her heart, stomped on it and put it back in her chest, and Cassie is staring at her with empty eyes _I’m so sorry_ and someone grips her arm—a gold mask—“You are a _problem,_ little girl— _Kate-_ -I'm going to _kill_ you, little girl—KATE—I'm going to put my cigarettes out on your face— _KATE_ —"

She bolts back into consciousness.

..

Kate rolls off the side of the bed, reaching for the knife she has between her mattress and box spring only to find nothing—and to not land on a fuzzy rug— _wrong wrong wrong—_ she propels herself backward from whoever was grabbing her, slamming into a wall— _not her apartment_ —but familiar, wait, not Clint’s, not Tasha’s—which means—

Matt's apartment.

Everything is fine.

Fine is a relative term, right?

Matt is grimacing at her, hand outstretched to where she was three seconds ago, holding his side with his other hand and breathing heavily.

"Kate, you're fine. It was just a nightmare. Okay?"

She nods uselessly, not trusting her voice, just curling her arms around herself and rocking, trying not to whimper.

She opens her mouth to say, "I'm fine, just give me a minute," but what comes out sounds a lot more like a choked-back sob than actual words, and it tangles with her breath, trapping the air in her lungs. She pulls her hands away from her sides, staring at them long enough to convince herself that there’s no blood on them.

"Kate?" he's slowly shuffling towards her, inching forward on the bed until he gets close enough that he can slide down the side of the mattress to sit on the floor right across from her—and she's going to tell him it's fine, not to bother, she can handle this, but once again she opens her mouth and—

She claps her hands over her mouth to muffle the sob.

 _It's okay, pull it together, it's fine, everyone is fine but Cassie and that's been the case for years now, everyone is fine_.

"Kate, what can I do? Talk to me," he reaches a hand out to her and she grabs on, tilting into him so she can press her hands along all the places she knows Claire sewed up, earning winces and quite a few _owws_ that underscore what she realizes she's saying, "It's okay, you're okay, you're alive, you're alive, it's okay."

"Kate, that hurts."

"Of course it hurts!" she tries to keep her voice from heading into shriek territory. "You were almost _killed_ by a _ninja_."

She wishes she could will her body into stillness, to stop the tremor in her hands, this weird chill that is shaking her from her core.

"I know," he says, tugging her closer. "I was there, remember?" The joke falls flat because Kate can’t quite remember how to breathe long enough to laugh.

“Hey,” Matt’s voice is soft enough that she almost doesn’t hear it. He takes her hands, pressing one against the bandage on his side and moving the other over his chest so she can feel his heartbeat. “I’m sorry.”

"You'd better be," she’s pretty sure he isn’t but she’ll take the lie. Her body still feels strung too tight, but feeling his heartbeat and the thankfully dry bandage under her hand is comforting on an immediate, visceral level. "You pull a stunt like that again and I'm going to push you off of the top of Avengers Tower."

"One of these days," she can feel his voice hum through his chest. "You're actually going to mean one of those threats and I'm going to be terrified."

"You suck."

A smile flickers over his face before disappearing, because she doesn't mean that either. "I know," he says anyway.

.

They don’t talk in the morning—Kate is tired and Matt still looks like he got the snot beat out of him, surprise surprise. But he keeps squeezing her hand, shuffling into her space, like he knows she needs reminders that he’s still among the living.

She’s checking him over before she heads out for the day, making sure he’s got food and isn’t bleeding or didn’t tear stitches last night, pressing the bandages a little more securely against his forehead with a murmured “sorry” when he winces, brushing her fingers along the tape, combing a wayward lock of his hair back.

_It’s okay. He’s alive. He’s too stubborn and awful to die._

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet but still too loud in the silence of his apartment. Well, silent to her, she figures. “Your pulse just picked up.”

“I just keep having to tell myself that you’re alive, and mostly okay,” she tries to laugh and almost succeeds—failing because she drops her eyes from his face to see the skin left uncovered by his hoodie, red and raw in some places, cut up in others. She wants to shake him and shake him, she wants to hide him in a nest made of pillows, she wants to punch him, she wants to touch him to be _sure_ he’s alive but she’s afraid she’ll break him and when she looks back at his face he’s a little closer than she remembers and his lips are very, very red, and his hand is curled against her neck, when did that happen?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again, tapping his fingers. “This is making me nervous.”

The cut across his nose and the ones at his hairline, God, they make her hurt, someplace not quite gut and not quite heart, and there’s a pressure at her neck urging her just a bit closer to him, just a fraction.

She looks at his eyes—no glasses, she realizes, wondering how it took her this long to notice that he doesn’t wear them around her as much as he used to—and his mussed hair the exact color of strong tea, and his bruised skin, one of her hands landing on top of his so he doesn’t let go.

A little more pressure on her neck and his lips are against her forehead.

They stay like that for what seems like forever, Kate clutching at his hand on her neck, leaning into him as much as he’s leaning into her, balancing.

He moves first—and for all the meditation talk, Kate thinks he’s incredibly impatient and doesn’t like holding still which is a theory backed up pretty nicely by his battered body.

He pulls back, but just a little, enough that she can look at him without smacking her face against his nose, and she’s about to step back and say _I am too tired for this can we put a pin in it_ when his thumb brushes across her lower lip, catching a little because the pad of his thumb is rough—but still a delicate touch, feather-light, like she’s the breakable one, like she’s the one who almost died, _fuck you, Murdock, you’re the one who almost bled out in the fucking Hudson, go to hell—_

He leans in, she pushes up on her toes, then rocks back because, _wait, hang on, is this a good idea?_ —before leaning back in— _who the fuck cares anymore I hate this man so much, how dare he, how dare he try to get himself killed—_ and the ghost of a smile flickers across his features, lips just brushing hers, just barely—

There’s a loud knock.

“Matt, it’s Karen.”

They pull back from each other so quickly it’s almost comical.

In case you’d forgotten you’re Hawkeye, here’s proof positive: your personal life is a fucking mess, and hey, now you have an audience.

Matt looks—apprehensive, maybe, or maybe it’s nervousness, turning towards the door as Karen knocks again.

“I can leave through the roof,” Kate doesn’t mean to whisper.

“Would you—that would be great,” he says in a rush. “Thanks.”

She suppresses a glare—why, exactly, is that great?—and then realizes it’s not like he can fucking see her, and glares for all she’s worth.

He catches her by the waist before she can huff off, pulling her close and breathing her air, and they’re thisclose—

“Come on, open the door _._ ”

“Yeah, here I go,” Kate grumbles, not looking back and making sure to shut the door behind her softly. “I’ll be back later, kay?”

_I do not get paid enough for this shit._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that there's a lot more to blood type compatibility, but for our purposes, we're going to pretend it's not so complicated. Don't give your friends blood transfusions, guys. Unless that's your job, of course.  
> I think it would be just typical Hawkeye luck that they're both O-neg blood type, meaning they can only get whole blood transfusions from other O-neg. And people like Steve, who rarely need transfusions, are probably AB-positive. (and if this is the case, there's probably this really creepily large bank of O- blood that Natasha has in a special freezer in her special storage locker and she doesn't feel bad about it because it's literally saved Clint's life at least once.)
> 
>    
> MASH references are what happen when you watch six seasons of MASH in a week. You know what else happens? Really cracky crossover/time travel MASH/Hawkeye fic. So that's a thing that's happening. But seriously. Go check out MASH.


	16. The Beast Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has some sort of weird allergy to the kindness and concern of others.

“Wow,” Claire says. “So much for not having a revolving door.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing,” there's the sound of Claire's hair brushing her shoulders. “I’m just heading out.”

“Stitch him up?”

“Can you immobilize him for a few weeks? I don’t think he’s going to stay still willingly.”

“I can, but I don’t think my methods are strictly legal in this country,” Kate remarks. “But hey, means you got to see his abs, so the day’s not a total waste, right?” ( _Bloody and alone_ Claire’s words echo in his head. He thinks about this _thing_ inside him that itches to spill blood, that threatens to claw up his throat and out of his mouth—)

Claire huffs a laugh. “Something like that.”

“You headed out, then?”

“How did you—“ a sigh. “Do the three of you just have an inability to keep secrets? Some sort of bird-spider-bird language?”

“We share a hive mind. It makes ordering take-out easier.” Kate’s jacket rustles as she shrugs before she snaps her arms around Claire, hugging her tight for a quick second. “Tasha is doing her pretending-not-to-worry-worrying. Be safe, yeah?”

“Safer than you,” Claire's tone is wry and a little fond.

“Well, that’s not even hard,” Kate scoffs. “Just this week I pissed off a dictator and a woman who runs an international crime organization, if you can’t stay safer than me, then—you’re Clint, I guess. Or this joker,” she jabs her thumb in his general direction. “Anyway. I’m glad I ran into you.” Kate scrabbles for something in her pocket, shoves a paper into Claire’s hand. “If you make it to the other coast and need some friends. They aren’t—they’re not mask-wearing types, though Shawn is pretty—well. He’s Shawn.” She pauses. “Call if you need anything, okay? Anything. I mean it, you need a friend, you need to know where to eat on the road, anything at all, _call.”_

“Thank you, Kate,” Claire's shoulders drop a little as she relaxes. “Take care of each other, okay? And you call if you need anything, too. Just because I need to get out of the city—“ she shakes her head, doesn’t finish.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t care,” Kate sums up. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“I know you do.” Claire wraps Kate up in a hug, squeezes. “Take care of _you_ , too, Hawkeye.”

The bolt scrapes as Kate locks the door behind her.

“You okay?” Matt asks, shifting uncomfortably in the chair (everything hurts; so difficult to focus like this, to think through the exhaustion and the pain, past the need to _go_ and _fight-_ )

“Yeah,” her voice is a little muffled—her face behind her hands. “I hope she finds whatever she’s looking for. She’s good people, she deserves that.”

“Kate,” Matt says, trying to fit words to the idea in the back of his mind. “You should head out, too.”

“I mean, I just got here, but okay, if you want to wallow alone—“

“I meant out of Hell’s Kitchen.”

“Excuse me?”

“This isn’t your fight.” ( _this is my fight, my fight_ the thing inside him growls. _My blood my fight._ )

“Like hell it isn’t,” she says with no real venom. “I live here too, you know. Run a business, own a building.”

“Kate.”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I am too. Of the two of us, I’m the only one who _hasn’t_ gotten the shit kicked out of me by this guy—“

“I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Then stop doing stupid stuff, heal up, and have my back. Easy-peasy.”

“It’s not that simple.” His fingers twitch against his leg (the skin of her neck under his hand, smooth but for a patch of rough scarring; a flash of heat _fire and metal—_ )

“It actually is.”

“Kate, I don’t need you here.” (this _thing_ inside him, fighting to get out, fighting for the sake of fighting-)

“Ha!”

“I don’t _want_ you here.”

(can still taste the wax-and-chemical-berry-mint of her chapstick, couldn’t even qualify as a kiss and it’s there on the tip of his tongue, distracting—)

“…excuse me?”

“You keep forgetting,” he keeps his voice calm, his tone even, his hand clenched into a fist at his side, “I didn’t ask for your help, I didn't ask for you to do _this._ To come in and _push_ and _push_ and _push—_ _”_

“What this? My _job_ which is to protect people? News flash: you don’t get to tell me I can or can’t do that." He thinks she's tilting her head, examining him before a half-sigh, half-growl forces its way out of her throat. “You want to tell me what this is really about?” (Claire was wrong, not a saint or a martyr, something worse, something darker)

“It can’t really be about you pushing into things that don’t concern you?”

“What part of this doesn’t concern me, again? The human trafficking, the drugs, the bombings, or the crime syndicate part?”

“The part that’s _none_ of those things—you know, I don’t need you pushing into my life and making a mess of it—“ (Kate’s pulse hammering against his fingers, his thumb still tingling with the feel of her lips, his fingers itching to touch her face, to _see_ her, the fragments of a picture annoyingly incomplete—)

“Making a mess of it? Wow, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you don’t need any help from me making your life a mess, pal.”

“Exactly!”

“Exactly what? What are you mad at me for?”

“You need to leave.”

“I will _gladly_ leave your apartment. Fine. But you don’t get to make the call about everything else. I’m already a part of this. You want to be alone? You want to push away everyone who cares about you? The people who want to help you? Go ahead—“

“ _I_ am not the one pushing people away—“

“Really? Because from my seat, that’s _exactly_ how it looks—”

“— _they_ are the ones who are leaving—“

“ _Because_ you’re pushing them away! Get how that works?”

“You’re all the ones who pushed first.”

She stands in front of him and jabs him in the shoulder. “ _You_ push and _you_ push so people _supposedly_ don't get hurt and they get hurt anyway _and so do you_."

Kate’s breaths are sharp and too shallow as she walks past him, back to the door. “You know, nobody expected you to do this alone. Except _you._ You and Stick, maybe.” She shrugs into her jacket, pulls her hair out from under the collar with an aggressive flick, pausing with her hand on his doorknob. “I’m sorry if the experience wasn’t living up to your angsty-lonely-hero-on-the-hill expectations. That doesn't mean you get to use me as your verbal punching bag.”

She doesn’t slam the door (he wishes she would have, wishes she'd come back in, _and another thing_ , wants to _fight_ ). She’s got a foot on the stairs when she adds, “You know, I figured there would be something that you would be terrified of. I just honestly never thought it would be trusting other people.” She lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m actually sorry—sorry that you can’t seem to let people-to let them see _you_. I—“ she cuts herself off with a shake of her head.

( _be careful of the Murdock boys_ , his grandmother used to say. _They've got the devil in them_ )

.

When he tells Father Lantom _I’m not afraid of dying_ it’s not a lie. He’s not afraid of dying.

Other things, yes.

The things that are happening to his life right now?

Maybe.

Not Fisk.

But Foggy? And Karen? And Claire?

Kate?

He might be afraid of that.

_It's living that scares the holy crap outta them._

Out of the mouths of priests.

.

He meditates. Puts thoughts of demons and angels and nurses and friends and Hawkeyes out of his mind.

No distractions.

No anything.

Still, and quiet.

Matt meditates. He tries to heal. He relives the blows, again and again, Nobu’s weapon—

-the bite of the blade into his skin

-the way it felt when Fisk’s fist slammed into him—

-the pull and burn of the muscles in his arm and the placid stillness of sighting a target and—

A wet nose, a dog licking his hand, the pain of getting a broken nose taped—

Kate’s sour voice— _I gave blood this morning_ , and he has never seen an arrow split another but he knows what it looks like and he knows how it feels, that to Kate it is a single shining moment, dewdrop-small and crystal clear.

He takes another deep breath. Lets it out.

He doesn’t try to chase what Kate’s blood knows—

But he does hold on to the feeling of making an impossible shot, the quiet calm of _knowing_ that you will make it.

He holds on to that feeling of perfect, distilled clarity.

He holds on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An incredibly useless headcanon for all my fellow Marvel/MASH fans: Father Lantom absolutely knows Father Mulcahy.  
> Like, I don't know how. But yes. (this has nothing to do with the crossover fic; simply for this universe. I should not be allowed to watch this much MASH, ever.)


	17. ...I'll Drink All The Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Badass Babes are Badass Together  
> (or, you know, commiserating about how weird their lives are. basically the same thing.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable appearance of one Darcy Lewis, Esq. DDM. MD. PhD. LMT. CMT. MTV. AMA.  
> And Karen and Kate bonding.  
> Because, no, I cannot let Karen be drunk and terrified on her own. I just can't, okay. I am not that strong.  
> This is ridiculous and a little silly, so just consider this chapter an apology for the next few chapters.  
> And the last one, probably.
> 
> Warnings for gratuitous music-dropping and song references.

Kate is not pouting.

She's a goddamn adult; she's _fuming._

Of all the _stupid_ nerve and all the piss-poor timing-

Who does Matt Murdock think he is, anyway? Amateur hour, for one.

She's absolutely not thinking about how he grimaced when she jabbed him in the shoulder, or the way he was limping when she left this morning.

She's not thinking about his sad mopey expression, either.

**Tasha: how did it go with the mask guy**

**KB: do you ever**

**KB: he just**

**KB: GRAAAAHHH**

**Tasha: please don’t throw your phone or bite it or hit yourself in the head w/it (this concern is from Clint btw)**

She _is_ thinking about the dumb boneheaded risks he takes, and seriously, would it have killed him to call and wake her up, to let her know what was going on? Because _not_ calling her did nearly, _actually, honest to God_ kill him, and what good is he to the city dead?

 _No good at all_ which apparently is not a memo he's received.

And she's absolutely not thinking about the way he'd smiled at her this morning right before she left, right before everything had gone to hell in a handbasket, and she is absolutely, positively, certainly _not_ upset in any manner other than one of the utmost professionalism, because he's been a good partner and they actually work well together, and she _likes_ working with other people, she isn’t thinking about anything _at all_ nope, nope, not doing it, nope-

Kate's anger-binge is interrupted by her phone blaring _She blinded me with science! But failed me in biology—_

Which means that David is probably bored on a stakeout somewhere—she doesn’t know why he just doesn’t play solitaire like everybody else.

“Darcy? How—"

“I have been awful, thanks, awake for like, the majority of the last three-day science bender. Do you wanna get drunk?”

“Darcy, I haven’t exactly had a stellar day myself—"

“I know, Hawkeye told me.”

“Good to know the watercooler gossip is still strong even with no watercooler.”

“I would laugh except that wasn’t funny. So. You’re getting a cab and coming to the Tower, where you will pick me up and I will buy you food and booze and more food and then we’ll go back to your place and watch shitty movies or Netflix or make playlists and paint our nails _not purple_ and drink some more. Okay? Okay. Good talk. See you in ten.”

Darcy hangs up, leaving Kate with the peculiar but unmistakable feeling of being hit by a tornado.

But.

Well.

That's Darcy. 

.

_if all you see is how I look, you miss the superchick within, and I christen you Titanic underestimate and swim—_

David needs a hobby.

"Hello?"

"Hey, boss-eye."

Correction: David needs a _different_ hobby.

"Everything okay?"

"Hey, you know how to disarm bombs, sort of, right?"

"KAMALA."

"Don't freak! I'm sending you a picture. Which wire do I cut?"

Sweet mother of-

"Green, cut the green wire, and then you'll have five seconds to pull the red and make sure to pull off the detonator-"

"Call you when it's done!"

.

Kate has not been allowed into the Tower without explicit permission for a year, or, to directly quote Tony Stark "Dear God, no, no, there's two of them? No. The Tower will be leveled, do you hear me, _leveled. Only one Hawkeye at a time_." He had then ducked behind a door and hissed.

It's nice to make such a lasting impression on people.

_I see a little silhouetto of a man, Scaramouch, scaramouch will you do the fandango, thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me; Galileo, Galileo-_

"...hello?"

"Ah, Hawkeye! Clint requested that I call you as he has left his mobile phone at home today!"

What the actual fuck, David.

"Um-Thor?"

Also, how long has she had Thor's number in her phone?

"Indeed! Darcy informs me that the two of you are meeting for food and drink, for which I am most grateful. Darcy was-I believe the expression is _run ragged_? By Stark and Jane. She is in dire need of both food and drink, as well as sunlight and non-scientific companionship."

"Glad to help? Hey, I'm actually here, so if you see her, can you send her down? JARVIS won't let me in if Clint's in the building."

"I would be delighted!"

.

_if all you see is how I look-_

"Hello?"

"Totally alive right now! No explosions, I officially have a better track record than the mask guy."

"Well, that's not even hard, Kamala—"

"Is that Kamala?" Darcy says right in her ear. "Hi, Baby Intern!"

"Hi Darcy!" Kamala shouts back.

"Look, if you guys want to talk don't do it through me," Kate gripes.

"Don't be a grump," Darcy pokes her ribs while Kamala says, "Why are you grumpyface?", or actually, "Whh aa oo gummpyfaa?"

"Don’t talk while you’re eating," Kate reminds her. "Hey. Send me a list of snacks that you like. _Healthy_ snacks, not junk food."

Kamala swallows very loudly. "Okay? Why?"

"Just because.”

“Why _are_ you grumpyface?”

“I’m not grumpyface.”

“Are.”

“Not.”

“Are.”

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“That means I’m right!” Kamala crows.

"You’re the worst intern I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the _only_ intern you’ve ever had, so that means I’m also the best intern you’ve ever had.”

Kate pauses, takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be taking this out on you.”

“’S okay, boss. Been a rough week, what with you committing acts of terrorism on foreign soil and all.”

Another deep breath.

“Thank you for letting me know you’re alive. Did you need anything else?”

“No? I think we’re all good here.”

“All right. Awesome. See you next week. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“What wouldn’t you do?”

“I don’t know. If I think of something, I’ll text you.”

.

 "Darcy, how are you paying for all of this?"

 _This_ being a very large selection of sushi and a bottle of sake (mostly drunk by Darcy). 

"Bishop, I get paid the big bucks now. Also, _I'm_ not paying for this." Darcy waves a very fancy-looking card at Kate. "I'm expensing it."

" _Tony Stark_ gave you an expense account?" Kate can't keep the disbelief out of her voice.

"Well. Jane, technically. But half the time in, like, professional correspondence, I'm Jane in the non-science-y bits, so you could make an argument that it's my expense account, too."

Kate frowns. "Does that mean that if I have my intern start drafting my letters, I should get her an expense account?"

"Only if you don't want to spend time in Purgatory, my fine-feathered friend.”

.

**Kamala: Hey so don't freak out but I'm pretty sure my dog just kidnapped your dog.**

**Kamala: and a pizza**

**KB: wat**

**Kamala: sorry**

**Kamala: does lucky have a curfew we should be mindful of?**

**.**

**KB: hey so apparently lockjaw and lucky are on a doggie date**

**Hawkeye: I know they took my pizza**

**Hawkeye: he just BAMFed into my apartment he needs to learn some doggie manners**

**KB: well when you find a trainer who can teach an alien dog let me know and I’ll pass the word along**

**Hawkeye: I think they took one of my shoes**

**Hawkeye: who does that**

.

The thing about Darcy? She parties hard. Even when she’s not partying, she parties hard.

This is not her partying, thank God, because Kate doesn't really want to post bail.

Nah, it's just the early AMs, and Kate is feeling full and relaxed like she hasn't for days, Darcy a little sleep-drunk and a little real-drunk, yanking on her arm as they meander towards Kate's apartment.

"Have we gotten pretzels and hot dogs and margaritas?" Darcy is saying. "I don't think we've done that."

"How are you still hungry?" Kate laughs. "We had sushi. And then we had Korean. And then we had Italian. And then we had fish and chips. And beer. And bellinis. We started the day with sake and it's tomorrow already."

"So theoretically we could do sushi again."

"Okay, but seriously, how many caffeine pills did you take? You should be getting ready to pass out, like, three hours ago."

"I did, you missed it. I'm actually unconscious right now. You're just talking to yourself."

_Workin’ nine to five—_

“I love this song!” Darcy starts to shimmy.

Kate rolls her eyes and picks up. “Bishop.”

“Kate, it’s Karen. Page?”

“Yeah, hey Karen, are you okay? You sound a little shaken up.”

“No—I’m fine, I just—I hate to—could I stay with you, tonight? Um, there’s just—"

“Karen? Karen, sure, are you okay? Is something wrong? Did something happen?”

“No—yes—I don’t know—"

“Do you need me to come get you? I’ll come get you. I’ve got a plus one, though, hey, text me your address, okay?”

.

“Karen? Jesus, what happened?”

Karen throws herself on Kate—and she’s got a few inches on Kate, so this is mildly terrifying—and _sobs_ into her shoulder, shaking from head to toe.

“Karen. Karen, hey, kid, it’s okay. We’re here. I’ve got you, okay? C’mon, mi casa es su casa. Are you sure you’re okay?” she can’t help but ask after a moment, rubbing Karen’s back in what she hopes is a soothing manner. “Do I need to put the hurt on someone? I’m good at that.”

“She is,” Darcy chips in.

 “No, I’m—I just—didn’t want to be alone. With everything going on with Matt and Foggy—which you wouldn’t know about, um, they’re fighting about something, I don’t know what, and Matt was in an accident—he’s fine, but—I just didn’t want to go back to my apartment—"

“Karen, whoa, whoa, it’s fine, I understand. Please, you’re welcome to hang out with us—oh, um, Darcy, Karen, Karen Darcy,” Kate introduces them as they hustle Karen up the street. “Forgive her if she’s a little loopy, Darcy works for…shall we say, eccentric science genius types who go on science benders—"

“For seventy-two hours,” Darcy interrupts her. “Do you want to hear what happened, Karen?” Darcy walks on Karen’s other side, sandwiching her between them. “ _T _hey accidentally set the lab on fire.__ How did they do that? I have _no fucking clue._ They were doing equations! There was no lab equipment involved! And yet, fire! So Pepper and I put Zzzquil in their coffee. Do you know how sketch I feel?”

“Pretty sketch?” Kate guesses, shrugging.

“I drugged my boss,” Darcy grumbles. “And her boss.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Karen pulls them to a stop, shaking a little less as she stares at Darcy. “I’ve seen your picture before. You’re Darcy Lewis, right? Isn’t your boss a famous physicist, or something? Foster? Dates Thor?”

“ _How_ are you more famous than me?” Kate leans around Karen to peer at Darcy. “Seriously? Seriously. Seriously?”

“Stop saying seriously or I’ll put you in a headlock. It’s okay,” Darcy tells Karen. “She’s just mad because she got professionally dumped.”

“What?” Kate stops short, pulling them all to a halt. “ _What_?”

“Not like, dumped by a professional. But dumped, in her professional life, by a professional acquaintance for future business matters.” Darcy starts walking again, dragging Karen and by extension Kate up the sidewalk.

“Why would you say it like that?” Kate moans. “ _Professionally dumped?_ Don’t call it that.”

“Fear of a name only increases fear of the thing itself,” Darcy chides. “Be brave, young padawan.”

“I mean, I don’t even know what we were fighting about. You know? We were just _yelling_ at each other and I said to myself, self, you know he’s stressed and he feels shitty and he’s probably a little freaked out, don’t do it, don’t engage.”

“Jane does that,” Darcy says sensibly. “She’ll get all sleep-deprived and science-drunk and she starts getting mad about the dumbest shit, like, who ate my poptarts? Who ate my toaster strudels? And I’m like, Janey, _you_ did. But she doesn’t remember, because she’s so tired. And she’ll just _yell_. You know? It’s a stress and sleep thing. So just give the guy a day or two, Kater-gator.”

Karen hums in agreement and hey walk along in silence until they reach Kate’s building.

Something doesn’t seem quite right, though—an odd creeping feeling on the back of her neck, a noise, maybe, that she can’t quite place.

Kate whips around, eyes darting from rooftop to rooftop. “Do you feel like someone’s watching us?”

Karen follows Kate’s line of sight, and Kate mentally kicks herself for not _keeping_ it to herself—whatever happened to Karen is Bad News Bears all the way.

“Paranoid much?” Darcy smirks at her, dragging them into the building.

“It’s not paranoia if people are _actually out to get you,_ Darcy.” Kate rolls her eyes and unlocks her door.

“Oh, please. Name _one person_ who is actually out to get you.”

“Just one? Victor von Doom.”

“Oh. That’s fair.”

“Victor von Doom?” Karen pulls off her coat, drapes it over the back of a chair. “Wasn’t he a dictator who got deposed few years ago?”

Kate and Darcy stare at one another for a moment—Darcy mouthing _who knows that? Nobody knows that!_ — before Kate shakes her head. “Karen, can I get you something to drink?”

“She has tequila, tequila, cheap beer, and terrifying Russian vodka which I would avoid at all costs.”

“I guess I’ll take tequila?”

“How do you _know_ that?” Kate grumbles as she rummages around in her refrigerator. “Margarita?”

“Sure,” Karen responds, sitting with Darcy at the table. “How _did_ you know that?”

“Wade, Wade, Clint, Nat. Those are the people she’s hung out with the most in the past three months? I bet she’s got some frozen burritos and pierogis, too.”

“That is super creepy, Darce, did you break into my apartment last night?”

“I’m good at my job, slice,” Darcy tips back in the chair. “So, Karen, how do you know Kate?”

“Um, I work at the law firm across the hall from her office. She’s helped us out with some stuff.”

“You a lawyer?”

“God, no. I’m their secretary.”

“You know what secretaries are, right? They’re idiot-wranglers,” Darcy grins.

“Sometimes,” Karen clenches her shaking hands. “My bosses are being major idiots lately.”

Kate sets a few glasses on the table and Darcy pushes one towards Karen. “Drink, O Blonde One. Tell us your woes.”

“I don’t know,” Karen takes a swallow of her drink. “It’s kind of—not for public consumption.”

“We are not among the easily shocked,” Darcy smiles a crocodile sort of smile. “Or the general public. For example, I could say, hey, Kate. I killed a man today. And Kate’s reply would be?”

“What, do you need help getting rid of the body?” Kate is thoroughly unimpressed. “Seriously, Wade killed more people before he met me for lunch the other day, okay, and that was a _slow_ day for him.”

“See?” Darcy turns to Karen. “Kate is not easily flapped. Quite ironically, too, I might add.”

“Honestly, I would be more surprised that Darcy was calling me and not, like, one of her other, more terrifying friends. Flattered, but surprised.”

“You guys are insane,” Karen manages a smile.

“You ain’t seen _nothin’_ yet,” Darcy scoffs. “You should see the people we work with. That Kate works with.”

“What, paranoid businessmen and unfaithful housewives?” Karen jokes back.

“No, like the spider that dare not speak its name.”

“Darcy, what? Did you and Tash—“ Kate cuts herself off with a shake of her head. “You know what, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I really don’t.”

Karen tugs Kate’s drink out of her hands and finishes it. “Maybe if I drink more, you guys will make more sense.”

“We won’t, but you’ll be drunker and won’t care as much,” Darcy points out. “So it’s probably a good life choice, at any rate.”

.

They’re a bottle of tequila into the night—or morning, as it were—and Karen is looking a little less hunted with every shot, so, thanks, Wade. She’s alluded to the blowup between Matt and Foggy—Kate doesn’t press because she already knows more about that situation than she’d like, and has half a mind to call Matt to lay into him about innocent bystanders named Karen but Darcy wisely stole her phone twenty minutes ago, so.

Darcy is keeping up a pretty steady stream of ridiculous bullshit, which is helping Karen relax, and they're drinking like it’s an Olympic sport. Given the cumulative stress and sleep deprivation between the two of them, Kate figures she’s got ninety minutes, tops, before she’s looking at the smoking wreckage that was once Darcy Lewis and Karen Page.

“Let’s make a playlist!”

Okay, amend that to sixty minutes.

“For what?” Karen sucks on a lime wedge.

“We could make one for you—Page’s Playlist, I like that. Or one for that Hell’s Kitchen Masked Guy. I like making superhero playlists,” she confides in Karen.

“Why do you say he’s a superhero?” Karen stares hard at Darcy. “Most people around here think he’s a terrorist.”

“Oh honey,” Darcy waves her hand at Karen and almost hits her in the face. “Do I look like most people? Do _you_ think he’s a terrorist?”

Karen shakes her head vehemently. “Nope. He saved m’life once. Did he save your life? Is that why you think he’s a hero?”

“I have it on good authority that he’s a good guy,” Darcy takes another shot.

“Who’s authority? Not, like, _Thor’s_?” Karen’s eyes get wide. “The one time I met him it was raining, does he know Thor?”

“Nope,” Darcy pops the ‘p’ and stares right at Kate. “I heard it from a Hawkeye.”

Kate glares at Darcy for all she’s worth and Darcy just laughs at her.

“You know Hawkeye?” Karen misses Kate’s glare. “Wow. What’s he like?”

“He’s a dweeb,” Darcy says fondly. “Tony Stark, like, despairs of him, which is how you know he’s quality people. I probably shouldn’t say anything else.”

“Oh, right,” Karen nods. “Secret identities and stuff.”

And Darcy is an awful, awful person because she looks right at Kate and says, “Kate’s met him, right?" and pauses an inordinate amount of time before continuing with, "The guy in the mask?”

“You know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”

“I mean,” Kate waffles for a moment, but she’s not going to lie. “Yeah? Sort of? As much as you can know a guy who hides who he is behind a mask—“

“And really fucking fantastic cargo pants. I mean, dat ass?” Darcy interrupts. “Is it dat ass or dis booty?”

“Dat ass,” Karen says after a moment. “Dis booty implies that, you know, the booty is here in the room with us. Dat ass implies distance.”

“I like her,” Darcy grins at Karen. “Sorry. Carry on.”

“Like, I spend a lot of time on the streets. Night time type times. Chasing leads and staking people out and stuff. Yeah, I’ve met him.”

“Now, have you met him?” Darcy asks. “Or have you _met_ him met him?”

“Really?”

“What? Inquiring minds want to know.”

“Who told you to ask? Billy or Teddy.”

“Look, I was given a mission and I chose to accept it.”

“Teddy then.”

“Who’s Teddy?” Karen leans forward.

“A good friend,” Kate sighs, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “You sort of met him, the other day? The big blond guy.”

“The one who ate half of the bagels?”

“Um, that was probably Tommy. Teddy has pierced ears?”

“Oh, him! Yeah, he was nice.”

“You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry, though,” Kate says, and nearly falls over laughing at her own terrible joke that Karen doesn’t get and Darcy doesn’t think is funny.

“Nice dad joke, Katherine. Thank you,” Darcy leans back in her chair. “But for serious, though. Throw out some songs.”

“Ugh, are you _for real_?” Kate makes a face.

“Of course I’m for real,” Darcy throws a lime wedge at Kate, applauding when Kate catches it with her teeth. “I am never not serious about music. I worship at the church of iPod.”

Karen laughs, then says, “Something badass. Aerosmith?”

“See, I was thinking AC/DC but Tony considers that his theme music and I don’t want to burden some poor masked vigilante with Iron Man’s baggage.”

“Fall Out Boy,” Kate says when Darcy’s stare gets to be too much.

“You think everybody should have Fall Out Boy on their playlists,” Darcy gripes.

“That’s a lie. Jane and Tony and Thor absolutely do not need Fall Out Boy.”

“MGMT,” Karen cuts in.

“Imagine Dragons,” Kate adds.

“You guys are depressing. I was thinking, like, Ke$ha. _This place about to blo—ow,_ ” Darcy sings.

“That’s not funny,” Kate glares.

“Come on. It’s a little funny.” Kate does not smile. “You used to be fun,” Darcy sighs. “Karen, I swear she used to be fun.”

Karen tries to muffle a laugh.

“You are both terrible people, and I hate you.”

“She doesn’t mean that,” Darcy stage-whispers to Karen, then yawns widely. “Jeebus, I’m bushed. Can I go sleepytimes now?”

“It’s not like we were stopping you before!”

Darcy blinks, long and slow, before sliding her iPod over to Kate. “I think I’m going to go to bed, but you should check out the YA playlist. Maybe it will turn that frown upside down.”

“You have—?”

“Dur,” Darcy rises and stretches. “That one time when David got drunk and hacked all of your contacts to send them it—I’ve had that playlist a long time.” Her eyes go wide and she stretches her hand out. “From way back yon, in the Golden Days of Yore, when thou wert but a lass—“ before breaking down into giggles.

“You know, I think I could crash, too,” Karen adds. “Is there a good place for me to curl up and pass out?”

.

Karen screams and Kate bolts off of the couch, reaching under it and yanking out the weapon stashed there, flinging herself into the spare room.

“Karen? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it was just a nightmare—is that a sword?”

“Yeah—you’re sure you’re fine?”

The window is still closed, Darcy is still snoring in her bedroom, and everything does seem okay.

“It was just—“ Karen’s breaths come fast and panicked and it looks like her cheeks are damp.

“It’s cool. I get nightmares all the time,” Kate sits next to her on the bed, lowering her sword. “Was it about what happened before you called?”

Karen hesitates, then nods frantically.

“Hey,” Kate slides the blade under the bed so she hopefully looks a little less insane. “I know Darce and I joked around a lot, but there’s really not a lot you could say that would freak me out. So if you feel like you need someone to talk to—“ she pauses, wishing there was some other way to say _my friends and I have all had screaming nightmares about aliens and sometimes I dream I’m being attacked by flaming robots_ but there’s really no way to do that without adding, _also, I’m a superhero_ and Kate is sure that Karen doesn’t need _that_ in her life right now. “Well, basically, if you need to talk, I won’t judge. My life is a mess, like, eighty-eight percent of the time. So I have no higher ground from which to judge from.”

Karen manages a chuckle. “Thanks. I don’t—I don’t think I can talk about it. It’s just something I have to figure out on my own. I don’t want to drag anybody else into it.”

“Okay,” Kate nods, standing back up. “I can respect that. But, like, as the second person in a day to say that to me, I just want to let you know that you don’t always have to figure stuff out on your own.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Right. Okay.” Kate pulls the sword out from under the bed and backs out of the room. “Well, goodnight then.”

“Sorry I woke you up.”

“I wasn’t really sleeping, anyway. My mind won’t shut up.”

“Kate?”

“Yo?” she sticks her head back in the room.

“Why do you have a sword?”

“I did fencing in high school.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Kate wonders if she gets bonus points because it’s not even a lie, before settling back on the couch and putting her earbuds back in, listening to how she can be a hero, just for one day.

She already knew that, but sometimes it’s nice to have David Bowie remind you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because if you don't think the Young Avengers had post-mission dance parties where Heroes by David Bowie was played loudly and repeatedly and sung to one another then I have news for you friend.  
> I headcanon the Young Avengers pretty hard as the kind of friends who serenade each other for no reason and there's a series of YouTube videos of, like, Kate doing cello covers of pop songs and Billy and Teddy doing Les Mis Marius/Cosette duets.
> 
> Darcy doesn't usually let Kate help with playlists because every. single. one. Kate will be like "BUT DARCY there's a cello cover of Applause!! Darcy! it seems you've forgotten that Patrick Stump exists. let's fix this!" And I feel like David (and Darcy which is why they are never allowed to be alone together at parties) is the kind of guy who gets bored and does, indeed, change all of your ringtones to very specific and annoyingly ironic songs.


	18. Reasons Hawkeyes Don't Watch Terminator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate Bishop has been doing a pretty good job of staying uninjured, when suddenly the universe remembers she's Hawkeye and seeks to restore order and balance to itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for canon-typical violence, mild torture, people getting their asses kicked. Nothing too gory, I don't think. 
> 
> just to be honest I had a lot of trouble figuring out just how much time was supposed to have passed post-Nelson v. Murdock so I'm just going to tell you that this happens roughly around the time Matt is getting his ass kicked by Gao.
> 
> so you know how I've been apologizing all this time for being trash? this is why.

Kate’s feeling a little better about life in general—she’s had a productive if boring morning of serving papers and doing some skiptracing for the divorce attorney down the road and a not-so-boring afternoon of tackling the man she’d been tracing—a gentleman who seemed to find having to pay child support offensive, and who had then decided to take a swing at her, prompting the tackle. And a boring evening of calling the cops and the lawyer, and filing charges. And another run-in with Sergeant Mahoney, who just sort of sighs at her and shakes his head.

She’s whistling tunelessly as she retrieves her bow from where she’d stashed it after the tackle-and-fist show—no sense trying to explain it to the cops—and finally heads home.

_Workin’ nine to five—_

Dammit, David, stop screwing with the damn ringtones.

“Hey, what up?”

“So, I went in to the office today—last night. Early this morning?” Karen’s voice is a little stronger than the last time Kate spoke with her.

“Bad idea, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t need an _I told you so_. I called for sympathy, Bishop.”

“Sorry.”

“They’re just—Nelson and Murdock is my home. And now it’s falling apart around me.”

“That sucks. I know what that feels like.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And—okay, at the risk of coming on too strong—Matt and Foggy aren’t the only family you have, okay? I’ve got your back. You’re a cool lady, Karen. Okay? You’re boss. Don’t forget that. I’ll shout it across the hall every day to remind you.”

Karen laughs—it’s sad and watery but Kate will count it as a success, one of the few of today—

“Karen, where are you?”

“At the office still. Hey, look, I don’t mean to be a mooch, but could I stay at your place? Or the apartment I’m going to rent from you? Because if it’s still available that’s a thing that’s going to happen.”

“Sure, not a problem,” Kate says absently, noticing the man walking by her with an oddly symmetric face; the guy leaning against the bodega who looks very similar; the guy leaning a bike against a stoop—shit. “Don’t be in any hurry to get here though, there’s some sort of accident and a bunch of cops. So just—probably stay at the office for a while longer, might be a good idea.” Kate lies, trying not to turn her head as she attempts to get a headcount without drawing attention to the fact that she knows they’re there.

“Okay—is everything okay?”

“No, sure, stuff’s fine. Things are fine. Gotta go, Karen, be safe.”

She should have caught it before she even made it this far down the street, but it’s not like she hasn’t been a little preoccupied for the past few days—

Five. Two at each end of the street and one behind.

Two more at each end, and she thumbs at her phone.

“Kate?”

“Darce, you still at my place?”

A pause. “Maybe?”

“Darcy, are you or aren’t you?”

“Yes—why, is something going on?”

“Need a favor. I need you to get in touch with Clint. Tell him _nine LMDs and counting._ Then I need you to go to the main door. There’s a keypad next to it, and I’m going to give you a code to put in it. Okay? Ready for the number?”

“Go ahead."

“Zero seven, one zero, one eight five six. Okay?”

“Got it."

“Nobody’s cell phone or wifi is going to work after you put the code in, so call Clint before you put in the code. Make sure everyone stays inside the building."

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?”

“Darcy, I don’t have time.”

Because Kate’s no Prodigy-level genius, but she knows when someone’s hunting her—and Life Model Decoys aren’t too stupid, either, and they know when their prey has caught their scent.

She edges closer to the side of the building, turning so she’s facing the way she came—they probably know where she lives but no way is she going to _lead_ these assholes right to her front door.

They’re tightening their loose formation around her.

One in an alley to her left—maybe one in that parked cab—

She nocks an arrow.

She turns.

She fires.

She doesn’t even wait to see if it lands—she knows it does, anyway, right eye socket—

She ducks behind a parked car and fits another arrow to the string, and another, turn _rise_ fire _duck—_

“My futzin’ eye!” One of them whines.

“Pull the arrow out and get _on_ with it,” a familiar voice snaps. “How are you, Kate?”

“Are you the real Madame Whitney Frost Masque or are you just a copy?” Kate calls, rifling through her arrows. “I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“Bring her to me,” Masque says, and Kate hears the flick of a lighter.

She’s only got two explosive arrows and three EMP rounds, so unless the LMDs all join hands Red-Rover style to let her take them out in groups, this is probably not going to end well for her.

Should have snagged Bobbi’s spare electroshock batons from the SHIELD base, but no, she had to think _no klepto_.

There’s a dumpster in an alley maybe fifteen feet down the street and Kate pulls out a plain arrow, preparing to move. She rises, takes in the lay of the land, fires at the LMD closest to her, pelts down the street to the dumpster, throws herself behind it.

Ducking around the edge, she catches a glimpse of one of the decoys tugging at the arrow in his eye. He yanks the whole thing free and slides the eye off of the arrow, shoving the sparking orb back in the socket—where some weird unfolding-metal thing happens, repairing itself within seconds.

She’s boned, basically.

Where the fuck is Clint?

One of the LMDs—with a very familiar bellboy face—goes for the door of her building, crumpling as soon as he touches the knob, a bright light arcing over him.

 _Score one for the home team,_ she thinks as some of his robo-buddies circle around him.

A breath in, the brush of the bowstring against her lips, aim—

The LMD in the middle of the group disappears in a plume of smoke and fire, a few limbs from two of his cronies skittering into the street, exposing wires and rough metallic edges at their joints.

Kate presses back against the brick of the alley as they chase down their missing appendages and start to put themselves back together.

While still burning.

“What is it with you and fire?” Whitney calls down the street. “You know, you’ve destroyed two of my homes by arson. I don’t appreciate that.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

At least eleven life-model decoys—hopefully the one she blew up stays blown up, so ten—plus Madame Masque herself.

“You know, Whitney,” Kate says as she casually pops up and fires an EMP round into the back of a former-bellboy who is heading back towards her building, “This whole posse you’ve got seems a little excessive.”

There’s a sizzle-thump before Masque goes, “You’re surprisingly resilient. Take it as a compliment.”

Kate takes a deep breath before she fires her last explosive shot into the group of stone-faced not-men drawing closer to the mouth of the alley in an attempt to pen her in.

She doesn’t waste the time or energy to say something witty like _not today assholes_ or _fuck off_ though on second pass neither of those are witty so maybe it’s a win that she's silent as she does what Hawkeyes do—goes up, pulling herself onto a fire escape.

She’s made it to the third story—the fourth—the roof—firing an EMP into the idiots trying to climb after her and _that’s_ how you do it, frying five of them at once, _metal is a conductor, asshats_.

She notices the first EMP arrow glinting in the streetlights with no LMD in it, registers a presence too close to her. She turns just in time to uselessly punch the decoy that grips her by her collar and throws her off of the roof.

_Okay, this? This looks bad._

.

She lands on a cab and wonders what she’s broken for the split second before she’s being pulled off of the roof.

Burning-Former-Bellboy holds her head gently before smashing it against the car, once, twice—

By that time she’s fumbled her batons out and starts whaling on him, face and neck, doing enough damage that he is driven back, enough that she can get away from the car.

“You know, I think I should set fire to your building. Just to even things out. Of course, I won’t take care to see that it’s empty.”

Kate is getting punched in the face and this bitch is still talking? Over the white-noise static hiss of the concussion blooming under her skull, Kate can almost hear Wade, _it’s all about torque, okay, you gotta be fast, just –POP!_ as she jumps on the back of one of the LMDs, gripping his head and _twisting_ so that he crumples, taking both of them to the ground.

There’s something wrong with her wrist that becomes worse when she snaps its neck, so she kicks someone enough to send them staggering back, lands another kick before she takes a blow to her solar plexus that brings her to her knees.

At least it’s a good position to take her batons and deliver a backhand blow to some nearby legs, but _that_ just earns her two swift kicks to the ribs and she feels very, very off as two LMDs keep her on her knees, each with a hand on one of her shoulders as Madame Whitney Frost Masque, Megabitch Extreme saunters towards them.

Kate makes a point to spit blood—thankfully no teeth—on Masque’s white boots.

“I must say, I’ve been looking forward to killing you for a while now,” she puffs on a cigarette, blowing the smoke into Kate’s face. “You are a goddamn problem, little girl.”

Masque looks at the cigarette, rolling it between her fingers. “Remember the first time we met?” her voice is filled with something that might be nostalgia as she grips Kate’s hair and jerks her head back, pressing the ashy ember just under Kate’s eye, the searing pain barely cutting through the agony in her ribs and the throb of her head.

Masque lights another cigarette.

“You know, Kate,” she takes a long drag. “I feel I can speak candidly to you about this.”

“Your smoking habit?” Kate manages.

That earns a laugh. “The terms of your demise.”

“Isn’t this, like, the sixth time you’ve tried to kill me?” Kate’s jaw is starting to stiffen up.

Masque hums around the cigarette. “Indeed. So, as much as I would like to make you suffer for, oh, for _days_ before I finally kill you, as a favor to a friend, and as a nod to your improbable ability to survive,” she leans towards Kate. “I’m going to kill you now. Well,” she pauses, looking at Kate critically. “Soon. I always enjoy the opportunity to mix business with pleasure.” She grinds the cigarette out on Kate’s temple.

“As soon as we’re done here, I’m going to burn down that building of yours and all the little people inside. You’ll still be alive for most of that, I think. I will then visit Clint Barton and make him watch as I burn his building down. And _he_ will take your place in my Room of Pain,” she explains, stubbing out another on Kate’s face. Another cigarette, another sigh, and she nods at one of the things holding Kate, and he holds her arm out at an odd angle and Masque walks up behind her—

It’s either a knee or a foot and Kate’s shoulder screams in agony and her arm hangs off-kilter while Masque is pulling her head back again, leaning in towards her, and there’s another searing pain next to her eye—closer, this time, and another, and another.

Kate scrabbles at the pavement with her damaged arm, her fingers closing on exactly what she was looking for.

“You talk too fucking much,” Kate says, and slams the arrow into Whitney’s neck—hopefully her neck, yanking it out and something warm and wet gushes over her hand—and something impacts her head—the world fizzles around her, bright and dark and loud and- 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first things first: I pretty much love you guys. 
> 
> Second: A couple of you have asked if I mind fanart, so (and I honestly never thought I would have call to say this I AM SO FLATTERED) I am totally, totally fine with fanart. I'll just ask that you comment with a link or send me one so that I can feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  
> To the lovely people who have sent me links: are y'all okay if I (attempt) to post links? Or if you guys want to, and just link them to the work? That's fine. I don't know the etiquette for this?
> 
> Finally: fight scenes. UGH. what a bear to write without sounding like stage directions. hopefully this doesn't read like stage directions, a person can dream, right?


	19. Team the Best Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're going to lead a very dangerous life, be an Avenger. It might not be safer but there's a lot more people who get scary angry when you're hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Doomtree's Team the Best Team. If you can listen to that song without getting twenty kinds of jacked up about the Young Avengers then you are a much stronger person than I am.
> 
> MOVING ON: No major warnings? Maybe some slight ooc-ness? I feel like when the Young Avengers enter your life in any capacity, at a certain point you just have to be like, "Fuck it. Whatever. Just do the thing." When you see the asterisk as a break, if you have the Matt/Karen "you are not alone" hug scene queued up somewhere that would be when to play it
> 
> And another thing:
> 
> Here's some awesome [Hawkeye](http://daftflower.tumblr.com/post/125547425649/fanart-for-nazar-by-sergeantangel-kate-bishop) and [Daredevil](http://anything-of-nothing.tumblr.com/post/126544601527/i-had-a-pretty-good-day-and-part-of-it-was-that-a) art. I am. SO. Flustered. And flattered. I am verklempt. I would say I have no words but obviously that's not true so I'm basically a heart eyes emoji. Thank you guys so much!

His chest aches. His side aches. Madame Gao is, perhaps, not as human as he anticipated. His lungs burn from the smoke and his stomach churns from his experience at her warehouse.

Something feels raw inside him from laying Brett out, from being the villain of the story. He knew this was going to be a thankless task when he took it on, but he didn’t realize just how lonely a task it really is.

He hadn’t realized how lonely he _wasn’t_ until he was.

Matt hears an odd electric hum and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s been walking to Kate’s; the hum draws his attention to three people in the street—one breathing shallowly and two male voices arguing in frantic, hushed tones.

“Cover us,” one of the voices says—familiar, but Matt can’t place it. “I don’t want any stragglers sneaking up on us while I’m trying to stabilize her.”

“Yeah,” the other one says—also familiar—and then the speaker gets—bigger, somehow, and as he nears Matt can even _smell_ a change, something almost reptilian. The other one, the one by the shallow breather, is surrounded by what seems like electricity, only cold—something chill that snaps and hums and fizzes.

The shallow breather is in trouble, he can tell that from here—

He grinds to a stop, panting, straining his senses—

It’s Kate.

The only reason he knows the shallow breather is Kate is the faint tinge of—of _Kate-_ smell underneath the heavy cocktail of odors that smother her (acrid remains of an explosion and the tang of electricity, some sort of fluid that isn’t quite oil, and blood.)

The man kneeling at her head might be one of her teammates, and the strange energy snapping and humming from his hands to Kate would mean—Wicca? No, Wiccan.

“Can’t you just heal her?” the not-human one is saying.

“Do you remember what happened the last time I tried to do something that big?” Wiccan says severely. “I don’t want her to become the host for a parasitic universe-destroyer.”

The other one—Hulking?—shuts his mouth with a snap. He’s something different, something strange—he seems colder than most people, but also louder, as if his entire body was vibrating.

Matt can’t focus on Kate—it’s as if his mind slides right over her, refusing to focus, refusing to digest the information his senses are picking up.

And _wings_ , shit, _wings_ , Matt hadn’t even realized he was moving again as Hulkling grabs him by the throat and slams him against the side of a building.

“Did you do this?” Hulkling growls, his hand tightening around Matt’s windpipe. “Did you?”

Matt squeezes uselessly at Hulkling’s wrist, knees him, and manages a kick square in his chest.

“ _No_ ,” he gasps out, doubled over, his chest still aching from Madame Gao’s blow. “I don’t even know what happened.”

“Teddy, I don’t think he had anything to do with this,” Wiccan’s voice is still strained. “He’s the guy she’s been working with.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” Hulkling’s voice is low. “Could have led them to her, could have sold her out—“

In the flickering flames of the world Matt sees, Kate’s limbs are getting darker while her blood pools, hot and thick and full of life, in her chest and abdomen.

She is fading—she is a dying ember in this city of fire—and there is nothing he can do. There is nothing anyone can do at this point. The certainty of this grips his heart in a vice, raking sharp claws through his lungs

(The last thing he said to her—what was it? He can’t remember; all he knows was that it was meant to hurt and that it was a lie.)

He’s saying something, gripping Wiccan’s wrist. Matt feels his mouth form the words, the way they rasp from his throat, but he doesn’t know what they are.

Wiccan shakes Matt’s hand off and Hulkling tugs Matt away—

“ _Do_ something!” he bellows. “She’s _dying_!”

There is a bright flash of—he doesn’t know what, something cold and sharp and electric all at once—that flares from Wiccan to Kate, linking them with something that reads to Matt as a low-temperature pulse with an ebb and flow from one to the other.

Wiccan sits, his hands still on Kate, his breathing labored and every motion stiff and controlled.

Kate is—

Frozen. Frozen is the only way he can think of to describe it. She is still too hot, too bright in her core and too dark in her limbs—her blood is not pumping and her heart is not beating—but she isn’t cold. She isn’t dead, exactly.

“Okay,” Wiccan grinds the words through his teeth. “I don’t know how long I can do this without it becoming a problem. We need to figure out what’s wrong with her.”

“If I let you go,” Hulkling says in Matt’s ear, “are you going to attack again?”

Matt shakes his head and shoves away, dropping to his knees next to Kate.

“If you have any powers,” Wiccan says, his hands hovering over Kate’s prone form, “like x-ray vision, now would be a good time to share.”

Matt’s words get tangled up in his mouth, the overwhelming need to help running headlong into the defensive denial of any ability he’s built up over the years.

(He hates himself for it, just a little, that even now—even with Kate dying—he can’t expose himself.)

“Knew we couldn’t be that lucky,” Wiccan says ruefully, pressing a hand to her ribs, and Matt grabs his wrist, stilling the motion before he can push harder.

“Don’t. She’s got three severely broken ribs and if you push there you’ll puncture her lung.”

“How do you—? Never mind. I don’t care.” Wiccan shakes his hand loose from Matt’s grip. “What else can you tell me?”

Matt takes a deep breath, and then the staticky bond between Kate and her teammate snaps like a rubber band.

“What just happened?” Matt manages to keep the panic out of his voice. “Don’t you have magic? Can’t you just—“

Wiccan’s hands hover over her forehead for a moment as he growls, “More magic is not better, it’s just _more_. It’s my magic, and I know how to use it.”

“Someone’s coming,” Matt rises to a crouch. “A man. Headed for us. And something—“ he doesn’t know how to describe it, an odd disturbance in the air, something big, but something that doesn’t register as having a different temperature or pressure—

“Do you know people who have stealth technology?” He says in an undertone to Hulkling. “Because someone just landed behind us.”

Hulkling casually stretches his neck, presumably in an attempt to see the aircraft, before crouching near Kate. “I think you might want to move this party inside,” he mutters. “This might get messy.”

“On it,” Wiccan doesn’t even look up. “When you’ve dealt with it, call David. See you inside.” And then—they’re _gone,_ without so much as a flash. (and he can’t hear them—her building is humming, and it’s like a signal jammer that he can’t hear past or over or around.)

“She’s going to be fine,” Hulkling says (a lie). “I trust Wiccan.” (not a lie)

Matt says nothing. He knows what he heard, and Wiccan’s abilities to freeze her aside, people don’t just walk away from injuries like that.

“So,” Hulkling says conversationally as they position themselves back-to-back. “Heightened senses?”

“Something like that,” Matt responds, shifting his stance and clenching his fists (part of his brain still probing at the informational black hole that is her building, trying to hear her, hear her teammate, anything.)

“If someone tries to shoot me, let them shoot me,” Hulkling spreads his wings out. “I think I’m probably a little more indestructible than you.”

“Agreed—the man rounding the corner is Hawkeye,” he realizes suddenly. “The aircraft, though—a young woman, older man? They’re clearing the area—government or ex-government, maybe?” The newcomers smell like recycled air and too much coffee—Clint smells like blood and antiseptic—the other man is wearing the same suit he’s had on for two days and a gun holster; the young woman who stays by his elbow seems on edge, heart racing and gun drawn.

Clint sees Hulkling and he relaxes and then panics—“Where is she?”

“Inside,” Hulkling’s wings relax a fraction. “Billy’s got her.”

“I was told LMDs. Where are the LMDs?”

“Hell if I know,” Hulkling shakes his head. “I didn’t even know that’s what it was. We just got a call from Prodigy saying she was in trouble and needed help. He was in the middle of a job, couldn’t even tell us what the problem was, just that one of her security protocols for the building had been activated and we should get to her ASAP.”

“Clear,” says a sharp voice. “No sign of Masque, AC.”

“Masque?” Matt finds his voice. “As in Madame Masque, the nemesis?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the unknown man says, his voice all steel under the manners.

“He pulled me out of a dumpster once,” Clint says. “Hawkeye’s been working with him. So unless any of you three can give me good reason not to trust him, right now we are until we figure out what the hell happened here.”

“I can’t hack the security cameras, Coulson,” the woman sounds frustrated. “I might if I can sit down somewhere, but there’s some pretty badass coding keeping me out.”

“Prodigy?” The man—Coulson—turns to Hulkling, who nods.

“It’s supposed to be hard to hack,” his wings shift.

Coulson nods. “Where is she? Hawkeye?”

“Can we go back to the Madame Masque part?” Clint snaps.

“We’ve got Bobbi keeping an eye out. She’s not going to leave the country.”

“Assuming she doesn’t sneak out or pay her way out,” Clint takes a deep breath in to an eight-count, while Hulkling taps at a phone.

“Can we get back to the _Hawkeye is dying_ part?” the words grind through Matt’s teeth.

“What?” Clint turns to him. “She’s—what?”

“I told you Billy’s got her,” Hulkling repeats, ending his call. “Prodigy gave me the code to deactivate whatever it was that was activated,” he mutters to Matt. “Don’t tell Coulson.”

The hum surrounding the building cuts off abruptly, and Matt gets a sense of their audience—a small crowd surrounding the front door, a few younger members in the large, open space near the roof, the powerful thud of Wiccan’s heartbeat and—faint, but still there; slow, but still beating; a little brighter, is Kate. Matt locks his knees out so he doesn’t collapse with the relief of it—the impossibility of it.

“She’s still alive,” he says as they make their way to her door, Coulson and the woman clearing the alleys as they go. “How is she—?”

“Billy’s very talented,” Hulkling says. “I told you. She’s going to be fine.”

.

“This is like playing tug-o-war with a rubber band,” Wiccan grits out as they fill Kate’s living room. “If I pull too hard, I may slingshot her into—something we don’t know or probably want. If I don’t pull hard enough, nothing happens. So if anyone’s got an ideas, now’s the time to share.”

“Would someone with actual medical experience help?” Clint kneels next to Wiccan.

“Ninety percent chance that by the time we get a hold of Strange it will be too late,” he snaps. “I already thought of that.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to suggest Strange. I know a guy. Well. Sort of. Natasha knows a guy. Let me make a call.”

.

“Could you do it in stages?” Claire says, her fingers pressing Kate’s skull. “In, you know, non-magical medicine, you can’t always deal with all the problems at once. Do triage on her. Figure out what the priority is.”

“That could actually work,” Wiccan might sound awed if he wasn’t straining to keep Kate with them. “What do you think I should start with?”

“Without x-rays and tests? I can’t answer that—“

“But I can,” Matt interrupts.

Natasha shifts from foot to foot by the window. (Claire smells like Italian food and perfume and she’s wearing a dress that flows around her knees. Natasha smells like Italian, too, and like Claire’s perfume, and expensive lipstick and a fitted dress with a knife holstered at her thigh.)

“I don’t like this,” she says in an undertone to Clint. “Why the retreat? Why didn’t they finish what they started? It doesn’t make sense.”

Matt agrees, but Claire nudges him with her elbow and he pulls his focus in (like taking aim—) listening, smelling, feeling temperature changes, forcing himself to process every piece of information he can. “She’s bleeding internally. Fractured left wrist. Dislocated left shoulder. Three ribs broken on the left, two hairline fractures on the right. Fractured skull. I think she has a concussion, it’s hard to tell. Severe internal bleeding, really severe—“

“Stop,” Claire holds up a hand. “Is there intracranial bleeding?”

“Not that I can tell—“

“You, what’s your name?”

“Wiccan.”

“Wiccan, are you keeping her unconscious or is this all her?”

“Not me, I don’t think?”

“How long has she been out? Anyone!”

“Less than twenty minutes,” the woman who had been barricading the door pipes up.

“Easing the concussion is important, but getting rid of it completely isn’t, not right now,” Claire nods to herself. “The internal bleeding needs to be stopped or nothing else is going to matter. If the concussion was worse,” she shakes her head. “But it’s not. So. Internal bleeding first. The other stuff, the superficial stuff, we can deal with, without magic if we have to.”

“Right,” Wiccan nods.

“The internal bleeding—point it out to him, Mike.”

Matt takes a second before placing his fingers lightly at the spots where it seems worse.

“Good, now Wiccan? Can you stop the bleeding? Just at the places he pointed out for now.”

“I can try.”

“Keep me posted,” Claire says. “Natasha, she’s got to have a first aid kit here, right? Find it.”

“You got it,” Matt jolts with surprise. “Wiccan, that was—keep doing that.”

.

Thirty minutes later and Kate’s heart still sounds odd, the pace too slow (Kate’s heart should be fast, should be light, like wings) but she’s no longer bleeding. (she’s not dying but she’s also not _not_ dying.)

Claire and Wiccan (and Clint) have decided to keep her in some sort of—magically induced coma (a phrase Claire utters like she can’t believe she actually just said it) so they can keep healing her, piecemeal, until she’s—some level of _better_ that Matt isn’t quite sure he’s grasping.

His hand hovers over the right side of her face, the raw burns spilling heat into the air.

“Leave it alone,” Claire’s voice is low at his back.

“She put cigarettes out on her _face,_ Claire.”

“I thought that’s what it might be. Matt. She’s going to be fine. It’ll scar, but—“

“What kind of person _does_ that?” the question explodes out of him.

“You know what kind of person does that,” the reprimand is slight, but there. “She’s going to be all right,” she squeezes his shoulder as she stands.

The burns are upsetting, but what makes him clench his hands into fists is her arm. Dislocated shoulder, broken wrist. A calculated move on an archer. (Matt isn’t the only one bothered; Clint keeps rolling his shoulder and flexing his arm and every time he does his pulse skyrockets and he starts to sweat, as if the mere thought of it enrages him)

“Natasha,” Claire murmurs to the spy in the corner. “She’s going to be fine. I don’t understand it, but—she is.” Claire reaches for her, hesitates, then squeezes the other woman’s hand.

“I know,” Natasha says. “I know. What I don’t know is how this could have happened. Kate’s lived in New York since she met Masque. Why now?”

“Fisk,” Clint says. “He already tried to kill you,” he throws a bottle of water that Matt catches instinctively. “Maybe Masque was doing him a favor.”

“Fisk’s backers are dying off,” Matt adds. “He’s eliminating them. Maybe he needs muscle and he gave her some sort of stake in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“God I hope not,” is Clint’s fervent reply. “That is some shit we don’t need.”

*

When Matt finally makes it home after a parade of unwinnable battles—Fisk and Foggy and the fading ember of Kate—after Karen gets a call _Ben Urich is dead_ —home isn’t quite the haven he wants.

Even from the stairs he can smell Kate (open air and wood and the orchid in her office—)

And there is a large box at his door (paper and cardboard, heavy paper, and a faint whiff of ink.)

He opens it, and it’s full of books. Books in braille, each with a note paper-clipped to the cover. Some of the notes have drawings done with heavy-handed ink—like the one that says _This is Lucky’s favorite book!_ In braille with a slice of pizza drawn on it, or the one that has a spider with the note _Natasha recommends of course, who else?_

He runs his fingers over the covers; opens a book up and skims a page, not really registering what he’s reading. He thinks about the night Fisk blew the Russians up, about the call she’d made the next day—about this?

He knows the answer is yes. Before things got messy—literally, before he tried to die in his apartment, before Stick and before their painful pasts had oozed all over one another—she’d started this.

Maybe she’d just forgotten about it, maybe—

(no, because Kate sees better from a distance; she plans the long game. It’s why they worked— _work_ —so well together, because sometimes she forgets what’s right in front of her and sometimes he can’t see the forest for the trees)

He glides his fingers over another smaller selection— _short stories I loved as a kid but really cute and good and whatever look be cool about it they’re fun, hugs, Kate_.

The deep ache between his lungs that he’s been ignoring all day begins to throb.

…

“I don’t think we were properly introduced the last time we sort of met,” a new man—one of Kate’s team—extends his hand. “David.”

Matt shakes his hand, opens his mouth to reply in kind, and realizes he can’t really, without potentially giving himself away.

“It’s all right, man,” David says, not unkindly. “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re here. Billy—Wiccan—kind of went bonkers and kicked a bunch of people out earlier. Said he didn’t need people doing death-watch vulture circles around her, since she’s going to be fine. He’s refused to let Darcy back in, and the only reason Coulson and Skye get to be here is because it’s a tactics meeting.”

“Prodigy,” Coulson calls across the apartment. “Are you and Skye ready to start?”

“Sure,” Prodigy pushes off of the wall. “Go ahead.”

“Well, once Prodigy let me in to Hawkeye’s overly secure security footage,” Skye starts (and there’s something _familiar_ about her that Matt can’t place) “And once I let him have access to some of our databases—“

“Let?” David scoffs. “ _Let_? You did not _let_ me do anything, I just _did_ it—“

“Regardless,” Coulson interrupts.

“Well, we picked up some footage of some very sketchy things going down—just look,” David hands a tablet off to Coulson, who swears and passes it to Clint.

“Shit,” Clint says, passing it to Matt. He tilts his face towards the screen and frustration claws at him.

“Teddy, at least three people in this room won’t know who that is,” Wiccan calls from Kate’s room. (she’s stronger, brighter, still tethered to Wiccan by cold energy)

“Right, of course. Um, it’s Derek Bishop. Kate’s—Hawkeye’s—dad.”

“With Fisk and Masque?” Skye says. “Isn’t Derek Bishop like a publishing guy? What’s he doing with them?”

“And that’s the million dollar question,” Clint sighs. “Fuck.”

“Why would they risk killing her, though?” Skye says. “I mean, SHIELD might not be in anyone’s good graces, but Avengers are. And wouldn’t the government consider the assassination of an Avenger a terrorist act?”

“An attack on an Avenger _is_ a terrorist act,” Phil says. “Kate and her team are not technically Avengers. There was paperwork, after the Battle of New York…” he trails off. “Legally, they can’t lay claim to any of the benefits or protections afforded to the Avengers.”

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Phil? That’s bullshit and you know it. She’s Hawkeye.”

“Officially, you are.”

“Officially, from the Hawk’s mouth, _we both are._ I want someone to _pay_ for this, Phil.”

“You think I don’t? You think I’m okay with this? I’m not, Clint. I want to see people pay for this. But I can’t be the one to do it. I run SHIELD, for God’s sake. I can’t go on anger-fueled justice rampages.”

“So you think retribution is the just thing to do in this situation?”

“Of course I do. It’s Kate.”

“Derek Bishop,” David growls to Billy and Teddy, “is going _down._ We’ve been talking about going after him for a while, but he’s a little high profile—not to mention, Kate’s dad. But this?” He starts to pace. “We’re not going to tiptoe around this anymore. This is—this is—“

Teddy grabs David’s shoulder to stop his pacing. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No. You don’t do anything stupid. Do you know how much Kate will kill us if something happens to us—to _any_ of us—while she’s in a coma?”

“Nothing,” David says, his voice dark, “Is going to happen to _us_. Something is going to happen to Derek Bishop.”

“You’re not going to kill Kate’s dad.”

“My team and I don’t _kill_ people,” disdain drips from every word. “Ruin them, sure. Take everything they care about away from them, yeah. Give large checks to the people they’ve screwed over with their greed and selfishness, that we do. Leave Derek Bishop to us.”

“Honestly,” Billy sighs. “If America were here, Kate’s dad would already have a punched-in hole where his head used to be. David’s plan seems a lot more manageable.”

“And,” David adds. “If we fuck up, America punching his head off can be the backup plan.”

“Prodigy,” Coulson calls, drawing the two groups back together. “I’d also like to have a word with you about the force field that was around this building when we landed.”

“Oh, that,” David says. “It was just some extra security stuff.”

“That electrified the building,” Phil says, voice flat. “I’m going to need a little more than that.”

“Nah,” David shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“Who electrifies a building?” Skye asks.

“Thor.” Teddy shoots back.

“We didn’t _electrify_ the _building_ ,” David heaves a long suffering sigh. “You know how we’re fans of Tesla, right?”

“Do you mean, do we know how once you and Kate broke into a secure SHIELD holding and stole some of Tesla’s original plans and invention blueprints?” Coulson says.

“No,” David finally manages after a very pregnant pause. “That was not what I meant _at all_.”

“Right, moving on,” Clint manages to sound unimpressed. “Natasha brought something up last night, and I agreed—why did the LMDs leave without making sure Kate was dead?”

“You don’t know?” David sounds positively gleeful. “Oh, man. Okay. Um. It’s going to take me a minute to pull up the footage—basically, they left because the real Madame Masque was here, and Kate stabbed her in the neck with an arrow. I’m guessing they left to get her medical attention.”

There is stunned silence for almost a minute.

“That’s my _girl_ ,” Clint pumps his fist in the air. “ _That’s my girl.”_

…

The office is quiet. Karen’s helping make the final arrangements for Ben’s funeral, and Matt didn’t realize how much having the sounds of other people close helps block out the rest of the city. The building is quiet in all the wrong ways.

On the other hand, when two people start coming down the hall, it makes it very easy to listen in.

“Look, I don’t think this is a good idea. I just listened to a two-hour lecture from Deadpool about never outing a fellow super-bro. Ostensibly, this lecture was for Kate, but since I have to stick pretty close to her right now, it was for me.”

“Not outing a fellow super-bro? Why doesn’t he just say ‘blowing a superhero’s secret identity’ like the rest of us?”

“I think Wade just really likes saying ‘outed’. The point is, this is very disrespectful of us, David.”

“You say disrespectful,” David raps on the door. “I say efficient.”

“Hi, we’re Billy and David, we’re friends of Kate’s,” Billy raises his voice. “We wanted to talk?”

“He used magic to find you so don’t be all _these aren’t the droids you’re looking for_ ,” David adds.

“You giant nerd,” Billy mutters. “But. Um. He’s right?”

Matt puts his glasses back on and opens the door with a sigh. “What if I hadn’t been by myself in here?”

“I may have done some mildly illegal things such as tapping certain traffic cameras to see that your secretary left two hours ago and you’re the only other person that came in today. Just, hypothetically, I may have done such a thing.”

Matt presses his fingers against his forehead and the headache building there. “Spring for takeout and we’ll consider that your retainer, and this conversation becomes attorney-client privilege.”

“See?” David claps Matt’s shoulder. “I knew we’d get along.”

.

After establishing that Kate is fine (“She’s stable enough that I don’t have to be right next to her,” Billy says) and that Natasha is watching her building (“I don’t know if this is true, but Kate said she once saw Natasha kill a man with a binder clip, and I only need one person like that in my life,” David informs him) and ordering food, they finally get a chance to really talk.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Billy leans back in his chair. “How did you know to come? When this first—“ he waves his hand. “You know.”

“I didn’t,” Matt admits.

“What, you were just in the neighborhood?”

“Something like that,” Matt smiles a little ruefully. “I’d had a less than successful evening of information gathering—“

“She didn’t go with you?”

“No. We’d exchanged words, the day before. I was passing by—a few streets over, anyway—and I could tell something was wrong. I didn’t know it was her at first.”

“I hate that street,” Billy finally says. “One of our teammates died here.”

“Cassie,” Matt’s voice is soft as he interrupts.

“Right,” Billy sounds surprised. “And now another almost did. Hell’s Kitchen hasn’t exactly been kind to us. It sort of ripped us apart. Phil wasn’t kidding. SHIELD—well, Hydra, probably—backed us into a corner after the battle, and since then we’ve—we haven’t really been back together.”

“They said we weren’t sanctioned to do the things we’d done.” David picks up. “That if we wanted the credit, we’d have to take the consequences—we’d have to foot the bill, and possibly face a trial. I wonder how much of that is true, sometimes.”

Billy shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. Kate wasn’t going to risk prison for us. And Cassie—if Cassie hadn’t died, they’d have had a fight on their hands. But Kate wasn’t going to let Cassie’s name be smeared.”

“Why—,” Matt clears his throat. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but why are you telling me this? I always got the impression that this wasn’t a story your team shares that much.”

“Well,” Billy says, like he can’t believe Matt hasn’t seen this fact plainly before now. “You’re Kate’s team. Well, as much of a team as just one person can be. I’ve never met David’s team, but he trusts them, so, to a certain extent, without even knowing them, I trust them.”

“And you’ve not worried that I’m going to somehow betray you.”

“Kate trusts you,” David repeats. “I mean, sure, Kate likes people pretty easily—as much as she bitches about Coulson collecting strays—and he does, I mean, he collected two teams of Avengers and a ragtag group of agents and scientists and hackers—she collects strays, too. But like and trust are two different things.”

“And she trusts you,” Billy finishes, when it becomes apparent that David isn’t.

It’s not like he’s got a lot of evidence to refute their claim with.

.

After Ben’s funeral, he goes to see Kate.

Claire and Billy both keep telling him if he says things, she’ll hear—people in comas do—but it doesn’t seem quite fair to apologize to her when she can’t say _I don’t accept_ or _are you done being a dumbass yet._

So instead, Matt brushes his knuckles across the edge of her jaw, a motion light and brief. Part of him thinks that if he actually touches her face without permission, it will be tantamount to admitting he doesn’t think she’s going to make it through.

And she’s going to be fine. Maybe this wouldn’t be sanctioned by the Vatican, but he has faith in her.

“Please,” he says as he brushes hair away from the burns on her face. It might be a prayer. “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this made sense? At this point it is just a WHOLE LOT OF WORDS. Basically, Billy is keeping Kate in a magical healing coma while her body heals itself, albeit at an accelerated rate once he jumpstarted the whole thing.  
> Also, going by what I know of planning funerals, this is roughly a week (from Ben's death to his funeral) but, again, this is just my experience.  
> Billy did indeed kick everybody out of Kate's apartment but David. Even Teddy and Clint. Natasha was banned for a day and Darcy three.  
> .  
> Well, we're winding to a close, my dearest darlings. Maybe two more chapters, maybe just one.  
> Again, I want to say thanks for all of the kind words and encouragements. Writing this has been a journey, and you've made it an AWESOME one.


	20. The Wee Small Hours of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an archery catalogue, Clint? really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw an imagine that was "Imagine Matt kissing you goodnight" and I was like "Imagine Matt NEVER kissing you goodnight because you are both idiots" and that's the story of how I finally got motivated to finish this chapter.
> 
> Warnings for depersonalization episode, character in a coma, and some really ridiculous conversations. Mild talk of concussions. Schmoop. Ridiculousness.
> 
> Also, I just want to clarify that if David Alleyne doesn't read like David, it's because I write him as Alec Hardison from Leverage, and I only really talked about it in one of my other fics, and I just wanted to be like, yes, he doesn't maybe sound like David and there is a reason.

_Safe safe safe._

_Why?_

_Why wouldn’t I be?_

Part of Kate shrugs at this; part of her realizes that this is a legitimate question.

Also, she can’t move, which is disconcerting.

A chair creaks near her head, and she smells a familiar combination of aftershave and sweat as someone strokes her hair.

_Wait. Cold. Move. Can’t? Can’t. Why?_

The hand on her head rubs her eyebrows.

“And I pray, oh my god, do I pray,” sings a familiar rough voice. “I pray every single day—"

 _Safe_ —

“—for a revolution—"

- _sleep?_                                                               

.

“…and the risers come in sky blue, midnight blue, sun yellow, cherry red, and steel grey. But no purple, I mean, really? Oh, and it’s on sale this month for 199.99. And look, they’re offering free shipping on orders of 250 or more. That’s not bad—"

.

_What say?_

— _bird, princess, cat_ — _not English—Russian?_

Man, if Tasha’s telling her fairy tales, something’s really wrong with one of them.

Her head throbs, and the deep pulse of it blocks out Tasha’s voice for a moment or two.

 _Probably not Tasha with things wrong_. _Probably me._

A sensation of cold that burns against her side _coldsocoldCOLD_ and the throb withdraws, dragging her down into sleep.

.

“She’s had _What’s Up_ playing in her head on repeat for like the past seven hours,” Billy grumps at someone.

She can’t open her eyes and still can’t move but the cold shock-burn discomfort is a little less.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Coulson?”

_Phil?_

“Are you reading her mind?” Phil sounds very disapproving. _That’s rich._

“Not exactly?” Billy doesn’t sound too sure. “I can—kind of hear things. I think it’s because I’m sort of linked to her right now. If I listen really hard—anyway, point being, that song was the first thing I—heard?—from her. Like a spotty radio station. And it was exciting the first time, but now it’s a little annoying and entirely your fault.”

“Why would you say that, Mr. Kaplan?”

Kate can perfectly picture the expression Phil is wearing, mostly impassive disinterest with a dash of complete innocence.

Billy sighs, and it’s probably accompanied by an eye-roll. “Because when you were dead but not dead and we were holed up at Clint’s she played that song like fifty times on repeat and cried intermittently. I’m not kidding, it was probably more than fifty. Like, for _hours._ So yeah, that’s on you.”

“She—" Phil cuts himself off. “How is she doing?”

“Okay, I think.”

_Cold. Cold cold cold why am I so cold?_

She goes back to her odd frozen limbo. _So damn cold._

.

“Kate, I don’t know if you can hear me? But you’re all right. You’re going to be fine, and everyone in your building if fine and Clint is fine. We’re— _I’m_ just keeping you sort of immobile because while you’re going to be fine, you totally got the shit kicked out of you and you’re actually kind of not fine right now. But you will be fine. I promise.”

_Stop saying fine._

Either Billy’s hand is very hot or hers is very cold.

She can’t tell anymore.

.

“Ms. Marvel has a SuperheroSpotter.com rating of five out of five masks and four out of five capes. Anonymous says ‘Ms. Marvel seems unexperienced but never backs down from a fight. Saved my bro from being a battery, but wrecked my dad’s car. Would recommend.’ Hate to break it to you, Hawkeye, what with being in a coma and all, but she’s better rated than you.”

 _Jerk_.

“She thinks you’re a jerk,” Billy mumbles sleepily. “Maybe editorialize less, babe.”

“Yeah, all right,” Teddy acquiesces.

_Coma? That figures. Why am I so cold?_

_._

“The MoMA is different. See, I’d hack the trunk line and send the feds and the cops scurrying to the reserve, and we’d come in through the roof—"

 _Like to see you steal a Pollock,_ is her grumpy thought.

“She wants you to go get her a Jackson Pollock,” Billy tells David.

_That is not what I said at all—_

_Ow? Ow. Can’t breathe can’t move arm head is pounding ribs hurt fuck Clint? Fuck?? Masque! Gotta stop—gotta—_

“Hey, easy, Kate,” Billy—a press of fingers to her forehead. “I got you. We’ve got you. Clint’s fine. We’re fine. Everybody’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

_Promise?_

“Everyone’s fine. I promise.”

_Sleep…?_

“Sleep to get better.”

_Sleep. Okay._

.

“I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you yet,” Matt says. “I didn’t want to intrude. I didn’t know if you’d want me to come. I keep checking on you, though—if I focus, I can hear you from my place. Which, I’ll be honest, sounded less creepy in my head. But it’s not that I don’t care. I do. I just don’t think you need another person hovering around you, worrying. Billy doesn’t, at any rate. So. Get well soon.”

The floor creaks as he shifts from foot to foot and then her door closes.

_You absolute noodle._

…

It’s cold.

Well, she’s pretty cold, maybe it’s just her?

It’s a nice night, though, aside from being fucking freezing, the moon is bright and the air brisk—she takes in another deep lungful of it, and there’s a deep ache in her chest.

That’s never good. There’s something in the back of her mind—something missing, something big.

How did she get on the roof? She might remember the chipped-paint feel of the fire escape under her hand but it’s cloudy, like a dream. When she prods her head, it throbs—concussion? Concussion, yeah, that sounds right, she can remember someone telling her that, though she doesn’t remember when.

Kate brushes her temple with her fingertips and shudders, her face tender and the skin tight as she works her jaw, and when she grits her teeth and pokes, she feels thick scabs—

Her stomach heaves and she yanks her hand away.

Okay. Okay. Injured face. Freezing cold. Trouble moving her left arm, which—how did she miss that? That’s—fuck—

A hand grips her shoulder, spinning her around and she _shrieks_ , fear clawing up her throat _don’t throw me off the roof again—again?—_ fists up.

“ _Matt_?”

“Jesus,” he grabs her shoulders, curling in on himself like someone’s punched him in the gut. “Kate? Are you—you’re awake?”

“No, I’m in suspended animation, of course I’m awake,” the sarcasm comes unbidden—Matt seems legitimately concerned—or scared, maybe—but anger bubbles on the back of her tongue, the desire to lash out and _yell_. “What’s it to you?” Because _that_ memory is clear as a bell, Matt ‘The Lone Ranger’ Murdock, being a _dick_.

David bursts on to the roof. “She’s up here! On the roof. She’s fine!” He looks at her; well, it’s more of a Look. “Seriously? This was your first stop? Not the kitchen? The roof?”

“Honestly, I have no idea how I got here. I mean, I feel like I remember the fire escape, but I am _not_ positive.”

Matt gapes at her just as David tugs her towards the door. “C’mon, Kate. Back inside. No more Kate Escapes.”

“Kate Escape. I like that. We should use that again. Oh, um, this is my—this is the guy who works—" Kate flounders. _Flounder, trout. Crab cakes?_

“Save it, lady,” David waves Matt in. “We know. Ish. Matt, we were gonna give you a call and then _someone,_ not naming names, but _someone_ climbed out her window.”

“I have a concussion,” she grumbles. “I’m not _dead_. Why you making such a big deal out of stuff?”

“We’re not doing this outside,” David bodily pulls her back inside. “Billy says your core temperature is still wonky and I don’t think any of us want to explain you getting hypothermia to Clint. Or Natasha. Definitely not Natasha.”

“So it’s not cold, it’s just me?” Kate allows herself to be steered towards the door.

“It’s a little of both,” David assures her. “We called Clint and told him you’re up, but he and Phil are doing punchy-and-shooty type things to, um—"

“Track down Masque?” Kate finishes and David nods. “Yeah, I think I’m missing some important information about our fight—"

“Kate!” she’s engulfed in a giant Teddy hug, getting passed to Billy when he’s done squeezing her.

“Guys,” she eyes them with suspicion. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?” Billy asks cautiously.

“I remember—" thinking about it is like wading through cotton balls, dense and opaque and useless. “I can’t focus. So concussion, first of all.”

“Now that you’re up I can give you, like, a booster shot. It might be uncomfortable. But to finish healing your concussion.”

“Sure,” she shrugs, then grins. “You figured out how to heal people? That’s awesome, Billy, I—" Billy presses his fingers to her temple. “F-f-f-fff-fuck, B-Billy,” her teeth grind together as she tries to keep them from chattering. “No w-wwwonder I’m so f-ff-f,” she can’t manage to swear and gives up, “cold. Jes-ss-us.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” his tone is crisp. “And I was trying to keep you alive and not concussed. So, you know, a little gratitude wouldn’t be remiss.”

“Thanks for the brain f-ff—freeze,” she grumbles, then drags him in for a hug. She feels more clear-headed already, though her left arm is still—not right. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” he squeezes her back, his bravado fading. “Take it easy on the arm. I knew you’d be mad if it healed incorrectly so it’s going to take a while longer.”

Kate stifles a laugh. “You were more worried about my arm than my brain?”

“You act like I don’t know you at all,” Billy puts on an exaggerated woe-is-me face. “And it’s really quite hurtful, Hawkeye.”

“So what’s the deal with my arm anyway?” she asks when she tries to roll her shoulder and can’t. Which is when she gets escorted to her couch and told all the ways she was very thoroughly fucked over by Madame Masque. David informs her he has footage of their fight, should she want to see it, which. Maybe later. She doesn't have a particular desire to see her own arm get broken.

Kate is standing in her bathroom, peering at her face when Billy shuffles in, staring at the floor.

“I’m sorry, Kate,” he looks distraught. “We weren’t worried about the superficial stuff—your face and your arm and the bruises, and it took a big toll on your body to heal all that stuff and I can try and fix it, okay I’m—"

“Billy,” she cuts him off, squeezing his shoulder with her good hand. “You kept me from dying. I don’t have any complaints.”

“Oh. Okay. It was just—the human body can only take so much. And I’m not as proficient in this as I should be.”

“Billy, you made the right call. You made sure I didn’t die. I’m not mad. I’m thankful, okay? So stop beating yourself up.” She turns and looks back in the mirror. “I look kind of scary, right?”

“What?”

“Like, you wouldn’t fuck with me. I look scary.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Awesome. Maybe I should do one of those Phantom of the Opera half-masks, only cover the other side, so that everyone can see the scars. Yeah?”

Billy looks a little bemused. “Do you just not understand the concept of a secret identity, is that it?”

She rolls her eyes at the mirror.

“Also.” Billy says, backing out of the doorway. “There’s one more thing.”

“If it involves the phrase ‘Life-Model Decoy’ or ‘I’m sorry’ I’m gonna scream,” she warns.

“No?” Billy says, backing farther into the living room. _That’s not a good sign._

“It’s your dad,” David calls from across her apartment. “He. Well, he’s the one who, um. Brokered the deal.”

“Brokered the deal?” each word is a question, as though she’s never heard them before, like she can’t puzzle out what they mean.

“Masque went through him to get to Fisk. We think he got some sort of,” David is sliding lower into his chair, the top of his head barely visible, like he’s afraid she’s going to fling something at him. “Finder’s fee. Some stake in Hell’s Kitchen. For your, um. Demise.”

Kate squints at him. She know what he just said. She can remember every word, but they’re still somehow—not quite coalescing into a complete thought.

“My demise,” she repeats, as if that will clarify anything.

“My team is already working on it,” his voice is muffled by the table.

Kate nods. This is acceptable. If David’s team is working on it, then she doesn’t have to worry about it until she’s told she needs to. She nods. A perfectly acceptable course of action. She nods. Makes a lot of sense. She nods.

“I’m going to call America,” she hears herself say. “I think he has a head he doesn’t need.”

All three of her teammates lunge for her phone.

.

“Promise you’re not going to call America about this,” David holds her phone and Billy is holding ice to his black eye.

“Of course I promise,” Kate snaps, leaning around the barrier created by Teddy’s wings, pulling against Matt’s light grip on her elbow. “Don’t be condescending, okay, if anyone gets to punch my father it sure as hell is gonna be me. _Maybe_ Clint.”

David doesn’t quite look as if he believes her.

“Oh my god. Matt, tell them if I’m lying. I promise I’m not going to call, text, or email America about this.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Matt shrugs.

“Good,” Billy nods, looking satisfied, but Teddy doesn’t.

“And you won’t call Quill to call America,” Teddy adds.

“Or call Quill to tell Drax,” David looks alarmed. “Please don’t do that.”

Kate frowns at the lot of them. It hurts, but she needs to get the point across. _Don’t be assholes._

“Don’t you have school or something?” Kate suddenly realizes. “Isn’t this the middle of the semester? You better not have to retake classes because of me—"

“Family emergency. We got extensions,” Teddy folds his wings back. “We do need to get back, though. Unless you want us to stay?”

“No, it’s okay,” Kate assures him. “If I need you I’ll call. Don’t worry about me.”

Billy looks at her like she’s the world’s biggest idiot. “You did not just say that.”

“Okay, fine, worry about me all you want. Just do it on campus. Go get yer book learnins.”

Billy covers his face with his hand. “I hate you, Hawkeye.”

“ _That’s_ a lie,” Matt says under his breath.

“David’s going to stay tonight, and Natasha or Clint is coming tomorrow,” Billy shakes his head.

“That’s cool,” Kate says.

“You know,” Matt's voice is low and just for her. “I can stay, if you want me to.”

Kate hums in agreement. “Yeah, David go home. Matt can stay.”

There are a few glances exchanged, but apparently she missed some pretty important things this week because all three nod without making a big deal.

“If you’re sure,” David says.

“We’ll call tomorrow,” Billy hugs her gingerly. “Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t do anything that _might_ not be stupid. Don’t climb buildings. Or trees. Or—"

“I think she gets the picture,” Teddy interrupts, giving her a hard look. “Right, Kate?”

She holds up her hand. “I solemnly swear I will not actively seek out danger.”

None of them look entirely convinced as she locks the door behind them.

And she’s suddenly exhausted, getting ready to sag against the wall, when Matt’s hands curl around her shoulders and she decides she’d rather lean on him.

Matt freezes before he pulls her closer, clinging to her.

“Matt,” her voice is muffled against his coat. “Why are you wearing pajamas?”

“I was sleeping—I woke up and couldn’t hear you. I came over to make sure Masque hadn’t—" he cuts the sentence off. “I couldn’t track you. You still don’t sound right, it threw me off.”

“Sound right?” she mumbles, her ear pressed to Matt’s chest, the lub-dub of his heart a comforting beat. _He_ sounds right.

“Your heart, your smell,” he taps his fingers along her spine.

“Sure,” she says, not really hearing, grabbing a fistful of wool, using Matt’s coat to stay upright. “I’m tired. How, I don’t know since I’ve been unconscious for a week, but.”

Matt herds her down the hall, and that’s when it hits.

Her father tried to have her killed.

Madame Masque knows where she lives.

Frozen in the doorway of her room, she remembers with a wave of nausea being grabbed by the LMDs—being restrained—she feels more helpless now than she had in the fight, she _hadn’t_ felt helpless then—at the time she’d just known she had to keep fighting, keep moving.

And she had.

 _Now_ is when she feels completely useless.

So, of course, it happens.

Well. _It_ happens. One of those things where she can keep it together and act like a normal person, put one foot in front of the other, but it feels like somebody else is doing it.

She knows the wood of the doorframe is rough under her hand, just like she knows Matt’s touch on her shoulder is gentle and warm.

She also knows how many steps it would take him to reach the window in the living room should the need arise, what common household objects he could use as a weapon along the way—and which ones he would be more likely to grab—she knows where her spare bow is and how quickly she could get to it—

Her grip tightens on the doorframe.

This hasn’t happened in a while. But she knows what to do. _You know what to do._

Billy is the only person who knows this happens to her. She’d told him; they were drinking and binge-watching Sailor Moon. He calls it Neo-Queen Hawkeye.

It’s been more than a year since the last time. It hadn’t been a big mission, just an intricate one and sometimes it’s easier to call the shots like this, to be a little less Kate—but there aren’t any shots to call now.

Matt’s stance has shifted. The change is subtle, but there. Of course he can tell that something is different about her.

“Kate?” his voice is low, wary of potential danger.

“I’m fine,” someone says in what might be her voice. “I just—"

_Need to breathe. Need to stop. Nothing to fight._

_There is nothing to fight._

“Kate?” his voice is a little more urgent as he circles in front of her between the window and her body. “What do you need?”

All she has to do is shift her weight if someone or thing comes in through the window and she can drop Matt to the floor in a second but _nothing is coming through the window—_

“Can you just,” the words feel awkward in her mouth. Somebody else’s mouth, some other person’s words. “Just lay next to me? Don’t touch me or anything. Just be close.”

He looks perplexed but says “Sure.”

He lays down next to her, hands folded over his stomach, the line of his body wired too tight, but he’s there, and he’s quiet.

Kate breathes in, and imagines the oxygen going down to her toes, visualizes the breath pulling whatever ephemeral part of _her_ that isn’t in her body into her body. She pictures this part of her settling in, locking into her veins like a burr as she exhales.

Inhale into her calves.

Exhale.

She fills every part of her body, focusing extra on her hands, on her arms.

_You’re okay. You’re alive. This is your body. Okay? This is your body. It’s okay._

Her fingers twitch and she flexes her muscles to feel the dull ache in them. _This is you. This is you alive._

_Okay. Okay. Okay._

Matt is quiet next to her, the tension erased from his face, his hands relaxed at his sides.

What’s it like in his head? Is the constant barrage of information something that grounds him in his body, or not?

With all the force of slamming into a brick wall, she realizes that Matt can see her without looking at her; without facing her, without being _near_ her, something simultaneously unnerving and incredibly comforting.

“What did you mean, earlier?” she tastes the words, lets them linger on her tongue, feels the mechanism of speech. “About me not smelling right? Sounding right?”

“Your heart is still a little slow, and you still smell like magic.” He’s a little hesitant as he says it, the way he is when he describes how he perceives the world, but the words themselves are full, filled in to the corners of their sounds, and there’s something comforting and distinctly _Matt_ about it.

“Does magic smell like rainbows? I’m going to be really disappointed if that’s not the case.” She slides her hand into his and squeezes.

Matt’s sigh ruffles her hair. “I have no idea what a rainbow smells like, Kate.”

“Not like Skittles, that’s for sure.”

“Aren’t Skittles supposed to taste like the rainbow, not smell like it?” He points out. “I’m almost positive a rainbow wouldn’t taste like chemical fruit flavors and over-processed sugars. _This_ magic—assuming there are other forms of magic—smells like electricity and cold humming through your veins like live wires. I can still feel it healing you.”

He takes a deep breath, but this one rattles through him and he grips her hand tight. “I missed you,” he says, almost like he doesn’t want her to hear, like he doesn’t want to admit it. “You scared the hell out of me, Kate.”

His hand trembles in hers.

“It’s going to take a lot more than Madame Masque to kill me,” Kate gives into the temptation and her fingers card clumsily through his hair. “She didn’t even get close.”

“ _Kate_ ,” he pulls away and her heart pounds at the utterly wrecked look on his face. “I _heard_ you dying. You were fading—you were _dying_ , she didn’t just get close, if your friend—if Billy—you would be dead, Kate. _You should be dead._ ” She grabs him behind his neck and pulls him back towards her. “Can’t do this without you, _can’t_ ,” he says into her skin.

“You did okay before I came along,” she points out. “You do okay without me.”

“I don’t want to, though,” he takes a shaky breath and pulls back so she can see his face. “Kate, I don’t _want_ to do this without you.”

Of all the _too much_ that has happened in the last—hour? Has it only been an hour? This is what hits her hardest. Or maybe not; maybe this is the only thing that doesn’t hit her so hard all she can feel is numb.

Hawkeye and Kate Bishop click together, sliding back into place, and her breath exits her in a whoosh.

She feels _settled,_ all the unease and anxiety that’s been stirred up drifting back to the bottom of her mind like so much sediment. Settled back into her bones, feeling the aches of her body and the heat of his hand in hers and dampness where his face had been pressed against her.

“I am now ready for cuddles, Murdock,” she informs him as she prods him with her feet.

In the half-light from the streetlamp she can see his confused expression. “Since when do we cuddle?”

“Wait. What? If I didn’t think it would hurt super bad I would be laughing my ass off right now. What do you call the stuff we do when we’re all beaten up? Or I have nightmares? Or you can’t sleep?”

“Sleeping together.” She can see the exact moment he realizes what he’s said. “I mean we sleep in the same bed.”

“While touching,” she adds.

“We don’t cuddle,” his jaw sets in a stubborn line.

“Whatever,” she rolls away from him, suddenly no longer amused and not sure why. “If I’m making you uncomfortable, you can sleep on the couch.” She curls into herself as much as she can without hurting anything—she’s still so _cold—_ and she can feel the mattress shift as Matt gets up and heads to the living room.

She chooses to think absolutely nothing about this as she rolls into the warm hollow left by his exit, soaking up all of his leftover heat and still cold.

There’s a breeze, the light weight of a blanket settling on her as Matt climbs back next to her with a very concerned expression on his face. “I don’t think I’m very—cuddly. Or good at it.”

Says the man currently sliding his arm under hers to ease the pressure on her strained shoulder. “I beg to differ,” she mumbles, sighing as he wraps his arm around her hips and tugs her closer, _that’s nice_. She tangles her feet with his. “I happen to know for a _fact_ that you are good at cuddling.”

“I would argue that you and I have not cuddled as per the definition of cuddling,” and oh my God, is he serious? “I think cuddling requires more—affectionate full-body contact than what we normally do.” Kate slides her whole arm along his until she lands on a position that eases the tension in it.

“Are you being a lawyer or an anthropologist right now? I can’t tell.”

He’s so close, he’s so _warm._ She hasn’t been able to properly shake the chill that’s been creeping into her bones since—well, since his fight with Nobu. And Billy’s magic, freezing her from the inside out so that she didn’t—die. She can think the word. So that she didn’t _die_. As if sensing her discomfort, Matt pulls her closer.

“As far as I am aware, cuddling requires embracing while lying down. An argument could be made for embracing while sitting. Ergo, we do not cuddle.”

She can feel him playing with the ends of her hair.

“If you want to add cuddling to our repertoire, I would be willing to try,” he continues.

“Does the defense rest?” she asks.

Matt’s lips twitch up in a smile before he schools his features. “We do, your honor.”

“Good. In light of the fact that the defense is cuddling with me _right futzing now_ I’m dismissing the case.”

His face splits into an honest-to-God grin. “I’m planning on appealing this. We’ll take it to the Supreme Court if we have to.”

“Oh my God you _nerd_ ,” she presses her face into his chest and tries not to laugh because _ow_.

“That’s slander,” he says mildly, his hand slipping just under the hem of her shirt, drawing spirals along her hips and a little up her spine. “I won’t stand for it.”

“You’re not standing, and you can’t say cuddle, like, fifty times in your Professional Lawyerman Voice and expect me to take you seriously,” she tries not to smile too much since that hurts, too.

“Cuddle,” he says, tapping his fingertips along her hips where her shirt has ridden up. “Cuddle, cuddle, cuddle.” His fingertips glide along with just enough pressure to be comforting, and more than a little hypnotic.

Something warm soaks into her from where his hand touches her bare skin, like slipping into a steaming hot bath after a long stakeout in the winter, and like the first shock of heat from a bath it sends shivers all through her body.

She’s tucked too close to Matt to be able to see his face when he sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment she toys with the idea of redirecting the hand at the small of her back to cup a breast. The idea is dismissed because she would have to move her left arm and it’s so stiff and achey she doesn’t think she’ll be able to do it.

Kate thinks about it, though, Matt’s hands on her, and shivers again, though less from being cold. Matt freezes, withdrawing his hand, dragging his knuckles along her hip. Knuckles rough from nights of punching the hell out of people.

Another shudder from Kate, and this time a noise forces its way out of her throat, something that, were she someone other than Kate Bishop, might be considered a whine.

But she _is_ Kate Bishop, so it’s not.

Matt presses his face into her neck, his exhale shaky against her skin. “Kate,” is all he says, and she’s heard a lot of different tones of voice from Matt, but never anything quite like this. Lovely, dark, and deep, she thinks a little muzzily. He should say her name like that as often as possible.

Matt groans into her neck again which is when she realizes all the nice fizzy-lifting-drink-type-feelings she’s feeling are probably apparent to Matt—though she knows for a fact _she_ didn’t move, so his thigh between her legs is entirely his own doing. Kate tells herself to put some space between them, but her body kind of goes _nah, we’re good_ —she feels present, grounded by the heat of his hand on her hip and the brush of his lips against her throat, the way his chest heaves as he breathes.

Neither of them move for several long minutes. Eventually, though, the tension dissipates from Matt and his steady breathing is enough to lull her back into a sleepy haze.

“You okay?” she has to think hard about the words, dredging them out of the tired fog of her mind.

“Yeah,” his fingers twitch against her waist and he lets out a deep breath. “You?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she sighs, almost asleep, though apparently her mouth hasn’t gotten the memo since it goes on to say: “We should do this again sometime.”

She prays to whatever god or saints are listening that she doesn’t actually say _with fewer clothes_ _on_.

.

Kate doesn’t have her office keys.

Because of course not.

There are shadowy figures behind the glass across the hall, and voices—Karen? Kate knocks.

“Kate?” Karen’s worried face peers through the cracked-open door. “Kate, are you—what happened? That’s definitely not the flu.”

“The flu?” Kate’s voice rises. “That’s got to be the laziest health-related lie I’ve ever heard, and Clint once told me _he_ had the chicken pox when he was very clearly bleeding from a head wound and in a walking boot. Who told you that, anyway? It was Clint, wasn’t it.”

“No, um, it was Matt—"

Kate utters a short bark of laughter, then clutches her ribs.

_Falling, falling, nothing to catch, no air, car crunching under you—_

“Are you okay?” Karen opens the door all the way, her hand gentle on Kate’s shoulder. “Are you—is that a hand? Kate, why do you have a human hand?”

“I found it under my dumpster. I have a faraday cage in my office,” Kate says, though from the look on Karen’s face this isn’t much of an explanation. “It’s robotic?”

Karen looks a little less grossed out but no less suspicious.

“Hey, do you have a key to my office?” Kate drags Karen’s attention from the hand in her hand. “I am not entirely certain where mine is.”

“Um, sure,” Karen pushes her hair out of her face. “Gimmie a sec, okay?”

Kate hums and leans against the wall as Karen disappears back into Nelson and Murdock as Matt emerges.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” Matt sounds resigned. Kate knows this tone of voice. Kate uses this tone of voice on Clint.

“Rested enough, thanks. I have a job. I am going to it. End of story. I am allowed to come in to work.”

“So I’m guessing you’ve already had this conversation today?” Matt’s eyebrows creep towards his hairline. “And Clint has your key. He was under the impression that if you could not get _in_ to your office you would not _work._ I’m not sure why he thought that would work.”

“Ah. That makes more sense, then,” she frowns, jiggling the doorknob.

“What does?” Matt shifts so Karen can brush past him.

“He was making googly eyes at Phil when I left. That’s the kind of tactic you use when you don’t want someone paying a lot of attention to you. Thought he could discomfort me into not asking him about stuff. And it worked. Ugh.”

“Googly eyes?” Matt repeats as Karen unlocks the door.

“Yeah, you know…” Kate trails off, because Matt very well might _not_ know. Or he could just be screwing with her. “When people are mooning over each other.”

“Mooning?”

“Karen, help me out,” Kate dumps the LMD hand into the faraday cage and starts composing a text to David, telling him that he needs to come get it and hack it or make sure it can’t transmit or something. Or come back to life and strangle her. She’s seen that episode of Doctor Who.

“When people are in love,” Karen prompts. “Or falling in love.”

“And they gaze deeply into each other’s eyes,” Kate finishes. “Which, incidentally, is a technique occasionally used by con artists to promote feelings of love and trust in a mark before the grifter steals all their money. In case any one was wondering.”

“Wow,” Karen says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re a ray of sunshine today.”

“No, I wasn’t—I like con men. Some of them, you know, the nice ones.”

Kate is getting a lot of raised eyebrows today.

...

“This is good shit, Foggy,” she says, reaching down from the vent to drop the papers on his stack. “Paragraph two seems a little sketch. Take a lawyer-look?”

Foggy is clutching his chest and breathing heavily. “Jesus, Kate. How long have you been up there?”

“Today?”

“What?”

“Like, how long have I been up here today? Or in general?”

“Are you telling me you hang out in our vents for _fun_?”

“No,” she says after a long pause. “Um. No?”

“Why are you saying it like a question, then?” Foggy counters.

“That’s just the echo. I didn’t say it like a question.”

“How did you even get a file up there? I didn’t see you take it.”

“Oh, Foggy,” Kate can’t help the disparagement that’s in her voice. “If I told you all my secrets where would the mystery be?”

“Okay, David Copperfield.” His eyes flick up towards her, then back to the paper. “Did you maybe want to come down and sit at the table?”

“I’m fine up here.”

Foggy mutters something that she doesn’t catch.

“She just likes being up high,” Matt says.

“Well, have her bring over a really tall bar stool,” Foggy says under his breath as Karen finally comes back, two bags of take-out in her hands.

“Any progress?” she asks, unloading the edibles.

“Not much,” Foggy shakes his head.

“Well, now we have brain food,” Karen pulls out a carton and drags a chair to the wall. Foggy follows her movements and what little Kate can see of Matt’s face is perplexed.

“Chicken and vegetables,” Karen says as she stands on the chair, pulling the grate off and passing Kate food. “Since you won’t tell us what really happened, I figured I’d get you something easy on the stomach.”

“Thanks, Kare,” Kate grins at her as Karen passes her chopsticks.

“What?” Karen asks as she drags the chair back to the table. “Don’t worry. She’s never there when we have clients. And with Fisk, it’s probably a good idea to have someone up there every now and then to make sure we’re not bugged, right?”

“How?” Foggy manages to get out. “When? What?”

“Karen thought I was a rat,” Kate calls down, digging in her container for the snow peas. “And then I wasn’t.”

“It’s her business if she likes enclosed spaces,” Karen says. “Now eat.”

“Did you know that Karen knew?” Foggy mutters.

Matt shakes his head.

The sound of Karen breaking apart her chopsticks echoes up to Kate.

“Karen knows everything,” Kate says. She’s proud that she manages to make the words reverberate a little off the metal.

…

“I’ll go to the fifteenth and tell Brett what we found.” Matt stands and grabs his jacket.

“Couldn’t you just call?” Karen points out.

“Fisk might be tapping the police lines,” Kate interjects before backing down the vent and shimmying out into their front room.

“Hey. Hey, hey, you’re not going to the fifteenth, are you?” Foggy is saying to Matt.

“I trust Brett, but he’s just one cop. He couldn’t handle it alone.”

“But you can?”

“Look, I know how you feel about what I do, Foggy. This is the part where law meets reality. Either I put on the mask, or we risk losing Hoffman. And Fisk wins.”

“Also, he’s not going alone,” Kate says from the door. “I’m going.”

“Kate. No. You’re not going.”

“Yeah, except that I am.”

Matt opens his mouth, probably to make a completely useless argument that she will in no way listen to—

“It would make me feel better,” Foggy interrupts.

“See?” Kate nods her head at Foggy.

“You can’t use one of your arms!”

“Correction, I can’t use one of my arms _that much_. I can manage a few shots. And you’re going to be the only person in any potential fight who knows that there’s something wrong with my arm. So as long as you don’t shout it to the world, we’ll be fine. Matt. We talked about this.”

“You promised your team you wouldn’t actively seek out danger.”

“I’m not. You’re actively seeking out danger, I’m just following you.”

Matt looks like her words physically pain him.

“You remember what happened the last two times we wound up in fights alone?” she reminds him.

Matt’s lips thin and his jaw clenches before he nods. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

.

“Quick question,” Kate says as they make their way to the building Karen un-disappeared. “How _exactly_ were you going to stop me from following you?”

“A strongly-worded argument.”

“You are so full of shit—"

“Gunshots,” Matt interrupts. “We’ve got to move.”

“You go low, I go high,” she says, not that she needs to, ducking up some stairs and coming out in what was once probably a premium box seat.

The guy with the gun pointed at Hoffman gets an arrow in the back of the knee, a second guy gets one in the ass, and by the time her ridiculously stiff arm has managed to set another arrow, Matt’s the last one standing.

She doesn’t need to be psychic or have super senses to know that the tilt of Matt’s head and the way his chin is pointed at her mean _what the hell was that?_

“Tranq arrows,” she murmurs, not loud enough to carry to anyone but Matt. “Ain’t technology grand?”

She keeps an eye on the downed cops for another minute before heading back out to the roof ready to deter anyone else who wants to crash their party.

.

Hoffman isn’t moving fast—paranoia will do that to a person.

Kate’s not complaining, though, since she and Matt are following him from the rooftops and neither one of them are really operating at full capacity yet.

“I thought the table throw was a bit much,” Kate tells Matt as Hoffman hides behind yet another trash can as yet another taxi passes him.

“He needed a dramatic gesture,” Matt shrugs. “Your eleven o’ clock—“

“Got it,” she shoots a shock round at the advancing cop.

“It worked though, which is the important thing,” Matt says before doing a leap/roll/Actual Cat move on to the next roof.

She doesn’t add _I don’t think your Scary voice is supposed to be that sexy you might want to rethink that_ because they’re at work and she is nothing if not a professional.

“When did you get tranq arrows?” he asks when they’re a block from the station.

“Oh, like, this week? David and his boyfriend have been working on them for a while. Also, I was actually wrong. They aren’t tranquilizers.”

“What are they?” Matt says, somehow managing to sound just like Natasha does when Clint brings up his specialty arrows—resigned with a dash of _saints preserve us_.

“It’s some kind of hallucinogen. So those guys aren’t just knocked out, they’re tripping balls.”

Matt clenches his jaw and swallows hard. “Hawkeye,” he grits out. “I’m supposed to be terrifying, you can’t make me laugh when we’re on the job.”

“What do you want me to do, lie to you?” she gripes, returning her arrow to the quiver when Hoffman makes his way safely into the building.

“Are you serious, though?” he asks, smiling. “Those are hallucinogen arrows?”

“Yes, I’m serious.” She hisses as she rolls her shoulder, her arm feeling weak and wobbly. “I grabbed the wrong ones.”

“Come on, Hawkeye," he says with a shake of his head. "Let me buy you dinner.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Breakfast?”

“If by breakfast you mean a giant bag of ice that you’ll tape to my shoulder before ordering pizza, then sure.”

“I think I can manage that.”

.

The ice is taped to Kate’s shoulder but the pizza ordering is derailed over a disagreement about toppings, involving the phrases _pizza is an olive’s natural habitat_ and _get off your high horse, Bishop, it’s just pineapple._

The pizza is still not ordered when Matt gets the call from Foggy—Mahoney has a client for them. Hoffman needs representation.

“It’s two in the morning,” Kate says.

“Justice never sleeps,” Matt replies, and she throws an ice cube at him.

...

The mattress shifts and Matt climbs into her bed.

“Is it morning?” Kate mumbles, and Matt stills.

“Very early. Not the kind that requires you to be awake.” Matt finishes settling in, facing her, one arm around her waist so his fingers are splayed against her lower back, his palm hot and a little damp against her skin.

“This okay?” he asks.

In response, she throws her leg over his. “I approve of your initiative.”

“My initiative?”

“You came here of your own accord, I didn't have to use Morse code or anything,” she pulls him in closer, feeling warm and a little self-satisfied as she drapes her arm over his waist. Matt obliges her, using her leg to pull her closer, trailing his hand along her thigh and—

“Matt,” she says, steadfastly refusing to open her eyes to confirm what she feels. “Are you in work clothes? Is this a _belt_?”

“Yes?”

“God forbid you be comfortable. I am not taking your belt off because I don’t want to wake up that much. Not that I don’t want to maybe take it off at some point.”

Matt stifles a laugh against her neck, pressing his lips to a pulse point. “Noted.”

“How did it go with Hoffman?” she asks, tugging his shirt free of his pants when it becomes apparent he’s not going to move to do anything else as far as his clothes are concerned.

“Foggy and I met with him, Brett took his statement—part of it, at least. We’ve got to wait a few hours for all the people we need to get there, the DA—Foggy’s with him now. Said I should maybe try to not look like death warmed over, and he would call if they needed me.” She can feel his shrug. “It’s strange to think that this is going to be over.”

“I hate to break it to you…”

“With Fisk, at least,” he amends, and she can hear the smile in his voice. Kate curls her hand lightly over the scar on his side, feeling the ridge of tissue against her palm.

Matt huffs a breath. “Tickles,” he touches the back of her hand with his fingertips, lifting and repositioning so it’s just below the scar.

“Hey, Matt? What do you hear?” she asks, the words slurring together, her brief interlude of alertness fading. “Or is that a rude thing to ask.”

His hand settles on her elbow. “Well, I wouldn’t exactly ask strangers who are blind that,” he deflects. “Any particular reason?”

It’s her turn to shrug. “I just wonder, every now and then. What you hear on any given night. What you listen to.”

Kate cracks an eye open and sees the way his face tightens when he listens. She takes a moment to wriggle into a better position, using her legs to hitch Matt’s thigh closer, grinding down on it a little.

“Kate,” Matt’s warning is undermined by the fact that he’s a little breathless. “Do you want to know, or not?”

“Just getting comfortable.”

She squeezes his leg again and once she stills, Matt tips his chin up, focus zeroed in, exposing the line of his neck.

Biting his neck seems like a pretty solid idea. He would also look pretty good with a hickey, but she refrains—though judging by the way his fingers twitch on her elbow, he gets the idea.

“An ambulance,” he says finally. “Four blocks north. A woman fell down some stairs. Two blocks south, a couple got mugged—“

“Do you hear anything good?”

“What?” he shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“Do you hear good stuff? Like, a server getting a huge tip. Or someone petting a dog. A child getting read a fairy tale? Nice stuff? It can’t be all bad—or is it?”

Matt’s brow furrows as his lips press into a thin line. “ _Nice_ stuff,” he repeats flatly.

“It can’t all be cops and murder and muggings, right?” Kate honestly isn’t sure.

“There’s three really drunk people singing off-key as they walk down the street?”

“That’s kind of nice.”

“Someone’s setting out food for the neighborhood cat two blocks away,” he continues, sliding his hand under her arm to go back to what appears to be his new favorite pastime of drawing patterns along her spine. “A woman just got off work and her girlfriend is making her tea.”

His hand rubs up and down her back, drawing her into that place just between wake and sleep, and she’s just about to tip over into dreamland when his hand presses between her shoulders. “Your heartbeat,” he says. “That’s a good sound.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At various points in rewrites, Matt was reading Khalil Gibran or Nietzsche to Kate, and I just thought, he's going to read "the abyss gazes also into you" and she will arise out of her coma to be like, "you are reading me fucking existential philosophy while I am in a fucking coma Matt are you for serious right now"
> 
> So, I am disappointed in myself, because I had a scene that didn't work out wherein Kate was wearing the most Hawkeye outfit to never exist and I want to share it with you because it's too ridiculous and could, theoretically, be a lowkey Hawkeye cosplay: originally, it was Kate and Matt sitting on her stoop after a confrontation with her father, and Darcy comes along and is just 'what the fuck are you wearing' because Kate is wearing arrow pants, a MASH 4077th shirt, purple sunglasses, an Iowa Hawkeyes baseball cap or zippy hoodie, and dancing avocado socks (which were a gift from Wade and also actually existed at Target a month ago and yes I own them). And Matt of course has no idea and Darcy is just facepalming. "Kate, you are the worst cliché of yourself. How. Why. Secret identity. What."
> 
> In case you were wondering (I know you weren't) Kamala and David named the faraday cage Thunderdome.  
> They think they're very funny.
> 
> One more chapter!


	21. It's Time To Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In superheroing, as in life, endings are also beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder what happened to all those guys who probably should have been guarding Fisk there at the end? Wonder no more, my friends.  
> Chapter title is from the Imagine Dragons song of the same name, which was one of the main inspirations for this fic.  
> Also, smut is happening. It is awkward.  
> I don't think it's super graphic, but, you know, just be forewarned.
> 
> As always, un-beta'ed so all mistakes are mine.

“Federal task forces are kind of beautiful when you can just sit back and watch them grab people, not worrying if they’re going to grab you,” Kate says the next morning, gazing dreamily at the news coverage. “With their matching FBI jackets and bulletproof vests.”

“You have a very weird concept of beauty,” Karen laughs at her. “What else do you think is beautiful? Rocket launchers?”

“Her name is _Marcia_ ,” Kate corrects. “And she’s a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.”

Karen stares at her.

“Ha, ha, I kid! Someday I hope my father will be taken in by a similar federal task force.” Kate pulls what she hopes is a smile but is more probably a grimace. She’s trying but her arm is killing her and her phone has been blowing up with a barrage of texts from her team all amounting to the same message, which is, essentially, _KATE NO_. Clint gets bonus points for sending her a very disapproving selfie with a cameo from Phil’s disapproving shoulder.

“Darcy and I got you a present,” she says to head off whatever pointed question Karen is about to ask. “Think of it as a ‘you’re a badass welcome to the sisterhood of Boss’ present.”

“What is it?” Karen says once she’s opened the box.

“It’s a taser.”

“Thanks?”

“Also, starting next week Matt and Foggy are letting you off early to learn self-defense.”

“We are?” Matt raises his eyebrows.

“Look, if you two bozos are going to keep dragging crime-boss types into the bright light of day, homegirl needs to know how to defend herself, right Karen?”

Karen looks from Matt to Foggy to Kate, her smile getting wider.

“I do know a little self-defense,” Karen says.

“Great,” Kate doesn’t miss a beat. “We’ll get you super total badass and then I’ll poach you and take you on as my apprentice.”

“Do I get a present?” Foggy looks a little petulant. “I mean, I am the one who recruited Marci.”

Karen rolls her eyes which means that Kate doesn’t have to.

“Oh, fine,” Kate grouses, crossing to him and smacking a kiss to his cheek. “You better like it,” she mutters. “I made it myself.”

Foggy looks floored and Karen laughs so hard she almost falls out of her chair while simultaneously trying to narrate the occurrence to Matt.

“What’d you get Matt?” Karen asks once she’s pulled herself together.

“Right,” Kate strides over to Matt, grabs his hand, and gives it a firm shake. “Well done, Mr. Murdock.”

The threat of Fisk no longer hanging over their heads is apparently causing the whole of Nelson and Murdock to come absolutely unglued, because Karen bursts into more laughter at the look on Matt’s face and Foggy _giggles_.

Matt looks like he can’t decide if he’s shocked, scandalized, or maybe a little resigned, which, Jesus. It’s not like she can drag him into his office and slam him against the door and make out with him. That’s not professional.

.

Kate stands guard on her stoop the rest of the day. Most of it is actual concern that in his last moments as king of the hill, Fisk is going to lose his damn mind and send muscle to her building—or try to earn a favor from Masque—and a small part of it is that she kept thinking about how she wanted to bite at Matt’s jaw through his stubble, which isn’t really work-related.

When the news announces Fisk is being taken into custody, the knot of worry in her stomach stays. She should be happy, she should have been celebrating with Foggy and Matt and Karen, the little law firm that could, all day. There’s something that’s off about a man with Fisk’s money and power just _sitting_ there, just waiting at home to be rounded up and carted off to the pokey.

The thought hasn’t even finished forming when she’s up, bolting down the street, the memory of David telling her _it’s usually easier to break someone out when they’re in transit_ ringing though her mind. Goddamnit, Hawkeye, how do you _miss_ these things?

Her phone informs her that there’s a shootout happening, that Fisk’s transport is being attacked; there’s been a massacre on the bridge, that Fisk is getting into an unmarked black van, Wilson Fisk, fugitive—

_What do you do when you’re trying to escape federal custody in a giant truck?_

_Play the shell game_.

She wishes she was a little less of a civilian as she bids farewell to her purple wool coat and third-favorite scarf—no need to invite a good strangling—tossing them aside as she darts down a side street. Her bow is slung across her body, arrows secured in their quiver, and she just has time to tuck her hair into her hat just as Fisk’s getaway starts to rumble towards her.

Kate rolls into the street and grips the undercarriage of the truck as it rumbles down the city streets, gripping tight and wedging her toes between sharp pieces of metal.

She’d expected to hate herself in the morning for this little stunt; as it turns out, she hates herself for it right now, shoulder screaming, arms aching, fingers burning.

She prays to whoever’s listening—even if it’s Loki—that the trip is short.

.

The trip _is_ short. And she supposes she should be _grateful_ or something that her phone doesn’t start ringing until _after_ Fisk’s new ride has pulled out.

“ _What?_ ” she snarls.

“ _What the hell are you doing in there?_ ” Matt growls with equal vehemence. “And why is your phone not on vibrate?”

Six pairs of feet approach where she’s hiding.

“Well, it’s good to know you’re close enough to hear that!” she hangs up. On further consideration, she adds “I’m going to straight-up kill you when we’re done tonight,” she informs Matt, which has the added bonus of confusing the feet coming towards her.

Kate shoves her phone down her bra and just has enough time to pull her knife from her waistband before a curious face and a gun come into view.

She greets the face with a kick and drops, rolling out from under the vehicle.

One pair of feet get her knife before she swings her legs around to knock their owner down. She grabs his gun and shoots out a light before removing the clip and emptying the chamber.

The second pair of feet get kicked into the third and the fourth pair nets her another gun when she bashes a head with her batons.

Kate ducks around one of the trucks under a barrage of bullets, using the din to cover blowing out a few tires, before swinging her bow off of her back.

One…two…three pairs of feet still in the game, and that’s not even _hard._

Three arrows fitted to the string.

The telltale silence of guns being reloaded.

“My turn,” she steps around the back of the truck, half-a-breath _aim_ fire twinge in the arm, one more guy load aim _release._

“This was fun,” she says to the now-silent garage, trying to roll her shoulder and failing. “Aw! Crap!”

She bolts into the street, Fisk’s truck still visible and Matt is no-fucking-where to be seen, another arrow loosed into a tire—

Her shot is accompanied by the sound of glass shattering—glass shattering _before_ the van flips. She keeps checking the alleys and glancing at the rooftops but it’s not until Fisk stumbles out and someone leaps down onto the side of the overturned truck that she sees— _him_.

Someone who holds himself like Matt and moves like Matt but appears to be wearing actual body armor and therefore can’t be Matt.

Fisk and gotta-be-Matt’s exchange is interrupted by Fisk’s bodyguard shooting through the sides of the truck. She is just about to shoot him when Matt does—well, she has no idea _what_ , only that it ricochets and knocks the man unconscious.

By the time she reaches the truck, Matt is down the street after Fisk.

She takes the time to disarm Fisk’s men—never leave a hostile with a loaded weapon, after all. She ties them, drags both the driver and the guard into the cargo space, and shoots the busted-open door of it with a net arrow. It’s not foolproof, but it will at least buy her some time if either one comes to.

Kate clambers up fire escapes and window ledges to the rooftops, heading in the direction she saw Matt go, screeching to a halt when she sees two figures fighting in the alley below her.

Matt seems to be doing well.

Until he’s not.

Fisk is fueled by desperation and rage and a piece of rebar. He and Matt are moving too fast and the alleyway is too narrow and there’s too much—fire escapes, fence, dumpster, crates— between her and the fight. The odds of her hitting Matt, or the shot glancing off of Fisk’s suit—too high. She’s going to get the chance for one shot, maybe two, and she’s not going to waste them. She’s Hawkeye, she’s better than that.

She almost has it, the perfect shot, when Fisk lifts Matt over his head—and there is a horrible, sickening moment of certainty that Fisk is going to break Matt in half. Panic pushes against her calm, urges her to shoot and keep shooting.

A deep breath to separate herself from the panic, a deep breath for clarity.

Matt’s armor doing its part, the impacts of Fisk’s rebar on Matt’s gauntlets sending up sparks. He just needs a second, for Fisk to be distracted for a moment.

_Wait for the opening._

Every movement drags as if through molasses.

Fisk shifts on his feet.

He raises his hand to strike Matt again.

His fist clenched around the metal.

Half an exhale, and the arrow is gone. She hears a faint _tink_ as it pierces through Fisk’s hand to tap against the pipe.

And the arrow tip is something small and nasty, an expandable broadhead that goes in needle-thin and expands on impact, ripping into Fisk's muscle and tendon, catching bone.

Fisk howls and glances up and that’s all Matt needs to rally, just one second, to rear up and catch Fisk’s hand, growling, “This is my city, my family.”

 _Yeah_ she thinks, pain shooting through her shoulder as Matt knocks Wilson Fisk out. _Yeah, he’ll do okay._

Matt looks like he’s getting ready to call up to her when a car squeals to a stop at the front of the alley, flooding it with light.

“Show me your hands! Do it! Show me your hands!”

Hey, it’s Mahoney.

“I told you before, sergeant, I’m not the bad guy.”

“Holy _shit_ , it’s you.”

Kate can sympathize. The headlights from the squad cars give her the first full look of Matt’s armor, and, well. Apparently Matt likes dramatic gestures.

“This man was a fugitive from the law, and I stopped him. We good?” Matt’s Scary Voice is legitimately scary this time, something like a growl and a roar having an argument in a cement mixer.

“What am I supposed to call you when I file my report?”

Mahoney doesn’t get an answer, what with Matt scaling the side of the building and disappearing into the shadows.

Well, to Mahoney it looks like disappearing.

For Kate, Matt is looming _out_ of the shadows, drawing her away from the edge of the roof and nervous eyes of the few cops still left after the FBI cleaned house.

She does _not_ say the first thing that pops into her head, which is “What the fuck are you wearing?” which she will be proud of for approximately ever.

“At least one of us came dressed to party,” she sighs.

Matt tilts his head, blood on his mouth and a triumphant bounce in his step, eager and so goddamn victorious, filling the space around her, so close that she has to look up to see his face—well, his mask and his jaw—

“I figured if I was going to scare people from their lives of crime, I might want to look the part.”

“So you’re _actually_ the Chupacabra of Hell’s Kitchen, then?”

“I’m a symbol,” he informs her, drawing himself up to his full height. “Stay on the path of the righteous. Or you get me. Still the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, just a little more—noticeable. And you’ve got no room to judge, because you shoot people with a _bow and arrow_.”

Kate hums noncommittally, running her hands over what she can of the armor. It seems pretty legit.

“What color is this, anyway?” she flicks a fingernail against one of the pieces on his chest. “Magenta? Plum?”

“It’s supposed to be red,” he smiles.

“Maroon, maybe,” she acquiesces. “It’s a little purple.”

“It’s not purple.”

“How would you know?” she uses both of her hands to trace his helmet, the tips of the horns back down to the nose.

She curls her hands around the sides of his head again, pushing up to her toes a little. “My little purple demon,” she says, kissing the helmet where it covers his forehead.

“Absolutely not,” he towers over her, severe, jaw set and blood smeared on his chin, until a grin splits his face. “Hawkeye?” There’s a question in his rough voice as he catches her chin, something dark and coarse that settles everything in her as he leans closer, his lips—

“I should probably follow them,” he says, stepping back and _no,_ they are _not_ going to keep doing this two ships passing in the night shit—she growls a little in the back of her throat and pulls at the back of his helmet, her lips brushing against his. She can feel him smile as his hand curves around her cheek, the cool leather of his gloves landing _just so_ between the cigarette burns, and his lips press to hers, finally, _finally_.

He tastes like copper and something familiar but unidentifiable—maybe if she could get her tongue in his mouth she’d be able to figure it out.

She sucks on his lower lip, her fingers scrabbling for purchase on his slick armor. Finding none, she sinks back on her heels. “We’re going to finish this,” she says, her voice low, “ _after_ we make sure Fisk gets to lockup. Agreed?”

He smiles at her, hands on her hips urging her back onto her toes so he can kiss her, hard and hot, his teeth tugging at her lower lip a little.

“Deal.”

…

Kate seriously considers just curling up at the top of the landing when they make it back to Matt’s. If she goes down the stairs there are, first of all, _stairs_ , and peeling off her clothes and _taking off her shoes_ , all the while trying not to move her shoulder, and then getting _Matt_ out of his outfit because his movements are stiff and slow; she has serious doubts about his ability to get what is at least three layers of body armor off by himself right now.

The vigilante in question seems to sense that the stairs are the biggest obstacle at the moment and puts his hands on her waist, steering her down the first flight, pulling back at her when she tips forward.

“Doing okay?”

“Fucking stairs,” she leans against the wall. “Fucking. Stairs.”

“You climbed a four-story building and jumped across at least three rooftops,” Matt points out, “and _stairs_ are going to be your undoing?”

“I know, right?” she mutters, curling her fingers under the neck of his chestpiece, drawing him closer, pressing her lips to his cheek. “When you tell Clint and the boys how I died make it sound cooler.” She kisses along the sharp line of his jaw. “Maybe mention a volcano. Or zombies.”

He grins down at her, and she knows this smile—‘we’re-co-conspirators’ but there’s now an added edge of ‘and-I-might-be-thinking-of-ripping-your-clothes-off-with-my-teeth-but-I’ll-never-tell’—the nuance is all in the jaw.

Matt tilts her chin up, peppering soft kisses to her lips, never staying in one place long enough for her to deepen it, little tugs at her hips pulling her away from the wall.

“What. What the hell.” Kate say when she realizes she’s halfway down the second set of stairs.

“Well, I have to get you down the stairs somehow,” Matt says pragmatically. “I don’t think I can make a convincing story about you being thrown into a volcano by zombies. Keeping you alive is easier.”

“Easy?” she grumbles, stomping down the last two stairs before turning and dragging Matt back for another kiss.

“Nicer?”

“Hmm,” she narrows her eyes, pulling his helmet off and dropping it on his table. After a beat, she turns it so the eyes are facing away from them.

“It’s not that scary,” he says, obviously trying not to smirk.

“It’s _creepy_ ,” she insists, tugging his cowl down to reveal spectacularly awful helmet-hair, sweaty and sticking to Matt’s head. She does him the favor of fluffing it out. The line of tension in his shoulders unravels as she cards her fingers though his hair, his whole body curling around her.

On a hunch, she runs her nails across his scalp and a low noise grates out of his throat, a delicious kind of sound that Kate could _live_ off of. She scratches at him again, punctuating it with a tug at the ends of his hair, and _that_ noise, a moan wrapped around a desperate keening, God, she wouldn’t even need _food_.

Matt takes a few deep breaths, wrapping his hands around her elbows and moving so she’s arm’s-length from him.

“I think I might need help getting out of this,” he says after a few moments of heavy breathing. “And then if you want you can keep doing that for the next seven hours.”

“Just that?” It’s a real question.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were going to kill me, were you?”

Kate barely restrains the desire to flick him on the nose, which turns out to be a good choice because one of Matt’s hands travels from her shoulder to her neck, down her breastbone to spread, wide-fingered, across her chest.

“ _That_ sounds right,” he says, almost to himself, tapping his fingers against her. “Almost back up to speed.”

“Did you get this on by yourself? Wow, this is, like, a whole production here." She takes a shaky breath, tracing the line of a buckle under his arms, across his chest to his shoulders, trying to figure out the puzzle

The undershirt with the armored shoulders seems to fasten in the waistband of his pants—but there’s also the vest, which is a separate piece. She approves of the whole-let’s-expose-as-little-skin-as-possible philosophy but also _how did he even get this on._ “This is like peeling an onion,” she mutters. “Okay. I think I’ve got it.”

She loosens the gauntlets and he peels off the gloves; she loosens a few clasps so the vest can come off with minimal fussing on his part; Matt unfastens his pants and _then_ the shirt can come off. He turns away as he tugs it over his head, draping it over one of his chairs.

“How did you get this on by yourself?” She wonders aloud. “How are you supposed to get this _off_ by yourself? You can never work alone again because there is no way this doesn’t require a team of experts to—“ She sucks in a sharp breath as he turns back to her. “ _Matt_.”

His injuries from Nobu are mostly healed, the scars still a sharp pink, but his forearms and chest are mottling red and purple from Fisk’s beating.

“Nothing fractured?” She asks, trailing her fingers along his forearms, afraid to press too hard, afraid to touch but not afraid enough to not touch.

“No,” he shakes his head, his skin twitching under her. “I’m not gonna break, Kate.”

“You can’t see your bruises,” she chides. “God, Matt, I just—“

What? She just what? She wants to hollow out a space behind her ribs for him, probably safer that way, wants to kiss him and run her hands all over him because that skin-shivery thing is _amazing_.

“Can I,” he clears his throat, and it looks like he’s having some focus issues. “I’d like to know what you look like.”

“Okay?”

“Could I touch your face?”

Kate opens her mouth to say _you’ve touched my face tons of times_ before she realizes that he _hasn’t_. He’s touched her hair, her neck, her chin. He’s never—he has no idea what she _looks_ like.

This is just how Matt sees people. This is his normal.

“Sure,” she shifts her weight on her feet, very firmly telling herself to keep calm.

Matt hesitates, hand stalled halfway to her cheek, before his fingertips skim her jaw.

“You can still breathe, you know,” he says after a moment.

“Right,” her exhale gusts out of her lungs. “Breathing, check.”

His fingers brush across her nose, lingering over the crooked bridge, the scar.

“Two breaks?” he asks. “Within a few weeks of each other.”

“I’m not even impressed anymore, Murdock,” she says, huffing at his grin that means he knows she’s lying.

He travels up to her forehead, rubbing his thumbs along her eyebrows, circling the edges of her new scars, outlining the raised bumps of each round burn. Down her jawline to her chin—another scar—then tracing the shell of her ear, the tender skin under her eyes, his fingers cool against her.

“What’s the verdict?” she asks after his silence becomes too oppressive, his expression too intense. “You should definitely compliment me. Tell me I’m pretty.”

“Your face is very expressive when you talk,” he notes. “And I wouldn’t say pretty. More,” he trails his fingers along her mouth, his thumb pressing into her lower lip. His breath actually catches before he manages to say, “Breathtaking.”

She’s been trying to stay still, trying to be calm this whole time, but that’s just unfair. Her breath jumps and her tongue involuntarily flicks out to wet her lips, brushing Matt’s thumb and eliciting a groan from him.

“Sorry,” her voice is rough-edged and hoarse.

“No,” Matt shakes his head, a frantic edge to him. “Don’t be sorry.”

Her pulse pounds in her ears and she just wants to put her mouth all over him, wants to bite him, mark him up with the good kind of bruises, the kind that say, _if anyone_ else _leaves a mark on you I will end them because you are_ mine. All of a sudden, Kate can’t get enough air into her lungs.

“Ice,” he says, dropping his hands.

“What?”

“Do you want ice? For your shoulder. You aggravated the joint, it’s inflamed and already starting to swell.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Something in her voice gives her away and he ducks his head with a shy smile.

“I’m not trying to avoid making out with you,” he says. “I just figured you’d appreciate being able to move that arm tomorrow.”

“You sure you’re not trying to avoid making out with me?” she asks as he rummages around for an ice pack. “Or having sex with me?”

Matt’s head pops around the freezer door so fast it’s comical, with an expression Kate doesn’t know how to categorize. “Sex?”

“I’m big on sex,” she says with a casualness she doesn’t quite feel. “I’d be interested in having it with you, if you’d like.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to have sex with you?” Matt says with the worst approximation of _casual_ she’s ever seen.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Maybe your super senses make sex—I don’t know. Unpleasant? I’m trying to make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I’m down with sex,” Matt crosses with the ice and Kate can’t help but snort at this massive dork. “Are you ready for this?”

“No, help me get my shirt off first. I don’t think I can get it off myself.”

Matt makes a face at her.

“You know, I didn’t give you any attitude when you used that line on me,” she points out. “And also, how do you expect to get my shirt off with ice taped to it? No, I don’t think so.”

“Why would I need to get your shirt off?” Apparently, her slack-jawed disbelief is palpable, because he follows up with, “Kate, you want to have sex now? With—" he gestures at his purpling torso and her arm. “How beat up we are?”

“Look, if we wait til we’re both in perfect health, I’m pretty sure we’ll be waiting forever.”

Matt shuts his mouth with a snap.

“No pressure. Just. If you want,” she shrugs, then winces.

Matt drops the ice on the table and proceeds to kiss her, one of his hands curled at her jaw, the other one—the one that had been holding the ice—sneaks under the hem of her shirt _fuckity fuck_ _cold_ —

She forgets about chilly fingers when he smiles a little and she manages to slip her tongue in his mouth. He still tastes like copper—just faintly—and something deep and earthy, something almost like woodsmoke in the fall. For a hazy moment, Kate thinks that Matthew Murdock is not so much a man as a fire disguised as a man.

Taking her shirt off is probably the least sexy thing Kate’s done in years. It involves lots of ducking, a lot of over-stretching the fabric, telling Matt to _put the damn scissors down this is a good shirt_ but it ends with Matt brushing his fingers along her stomach, across her ribs, so she figures it’s a more than fair trade.

It seems a little less than fair when he finally wraps the ice to her shoulder and Kate realizes they’re both still wearing pants and she’s down an arm. Matt, however, proves to be a team player, dragging her pants and underwear down her legs and lifting her feet to help her step out of them.

He’s on his knees in front of her, a sight that will probably have a huge impact on her productivity for the rest of the week. She can see his chest heave, deep, shaking breaths as he stands.

“Condom,” he says suddenly. “I don’t have a—fuck _. Fuck_.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?”

“Crime fighting doesn’t exactly lend itself to a sex life!”

“You are the worst,” Kate informs him, fighting the irrational desire to laugh. She digs around in her first aid kit. “The literal, absolute _worst._ ”

Finding what she’s looking for, she pulls out a couple of condoms. “Also, I’m pretty sure this makes me a goddess or something. Act accordingly.”

“A goddess?” he shucks his pants off. “I think I could manage some sort of worship,” he says, his voice low in his throat, and Kate is thisclose to knocking him on his ass and sitting on his face, is he _trying_ to throw this whole thing off the rails?

“Can _smell_ you,” he says into her shoulder, his hand skimming down her stomach, slipping a finger into her. He moans, the noise coming from the back of his throat. “You smell good, you’re so _wet_ ,” he presses kisses into her shoulder.

“Imagine that,” she says breathlessly, grinding down on his hand. “Did you maybe want to _do_ something about that?”

“ _Fuck_.” The word rumbles through his chest.

“Hmm, almost,” she responds absently, ripping open the condom, staying her hand. “You put it on,” she says in a rush. “Want to see you do it, see you touch yourself,” she pulls her voice from someplace she doesn’t normally, and Matt’s fingers dig into her leg before relaxing.

“Should have figured you’d like to watch,” he half-jokes, swallowing hard.

“That’s not even a difficult conclusion, Matt,” she traces a finger down his chest, shoving him in the direction of a chair. “And given your performance this evening, I thought maybe you enjoy putting on a show.” There’s the hint of a question in her voice.

“Maybe a little,” he admits, snagging the condom from her fingers and rolling it on, squeezing himself at the base. “I don’t mind a little pain,” he explains breathlessly.

“Good to know,” she tries to remember how breathing works as she sits on his thighs.

Her feet dig into the rungs of the chair as she lifts herself up, bracing on Matt with her good arm as he positions himself against her, pressing his thumb to her clit, the rough pad of his thumb sending a shudder through her.

“Good?” she asks.

In response he trails sloppy kisses across her collarbone, shifting so his hands and forearms are supporting her legs as she eases down on to him.

Slow, slow, she sinks onto him, letting him take her weight as her legs shake and he’s completely inside of her. She takes a moment to rub her cheek along Matt’s jaw, which turns into a languid kiss, prolonged by his fingers brushing up and down her back in long, smooth passes.

Kate rocks against him and Matt throws his head back, biting his lower lip and exposing his neck, and it’s—

“God, you’re _beautiful_ ,” she chokes out.

“That’s—my—line,” he pants, digging his fingers into her thigh and rolling his hips against hers.

“We can share it.”

There’s something gentle, almost thoughtful, in the way Matt moves against her, soft rocks and shallow thrusts.

No, not thoughtful. Calculating. Because he’ll shift her just a little and it gets better, presses him against her in a way that makes her feel more than a little desperate. And since, by this point, she has _literally_ been ready to come since _yesterday_ , she grabs a fistful of Matt’s glorious hair, close to the scalp, tugging his head back to pepper kisses along his jaw, the faint bruising under his eye.

“You can get all studious later,” she rakes her nails down his chest before reaching for his hand.

“Studious?” his laugh is more of an odd exhale.

“This is part of your study guide,” she informs him, curling one of his fingers and setting his knuckle against her clit. “You could probably—" he presses into her and that’s all she needs, one more roll of his hips that she meets halfway and her orgasm rolls through her.

She manages to yank at his hair and growl “ _Come,”_ at him just as she’s coasting down. He shifts, thumbs her clit, and whether she’s coming _again_ or simply _still coming_ is to be debated at another time when her world isn’t going starry-white at the edges and her fingers aren’t going numb.

He listens, though, and he comes; his hips jerking, his hands drawing her close so he can press his face against her shoulder, muffling the absolutely intoxicating moan he makes.

She pets his hair as he slowly relaxes against her, and thinks nothing at all.

.

The next day, when Matt comes over to her office to bring her coffee and she makes out with _Daredevil_ for ten minutes, she is overwhelmed with the feeling that her life is amazing, and that being a superhero is amazing.

Everyone should try it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Oh, my God, you guys have been great. This is the first fic I've ever posted, and the fact that you read it, that you liked it--I can't even express how awesome that is. Your excitement and comments and encouragement helped me finish this--this freaking novella length fic. You guys read all of it, and I'm just sort of gobsmacked by that.  
> So thank you, again. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> (if anyone's interested, I have a few WIP hanging out in the Landfill about where things go from here for our intrepid heroes. let me know!)


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